


kh's story snippet celebration sendoff

by kanames_harisen



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom, Miss Stevens (2016), Naruto, The 100 (TV), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Gen, adopt a prompt series, author is retiring from fandom, every snippet is adoptable!!!, except for chapter 3, most snippets are incomplete, that snippet is a complete but rough first draft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:48:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27513346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanames_harisen/pseuds/kanames_harisen
Summary: a collection of all my unposted, unfinished projectsmy final gift to the fandoms that have supported me over the years1: Yakuza!AU, kakasaku (Naruto)2: Modern!AU romcom, kakasaku (Naruto)3: Omelas-inspired!AU, kakasaku (Naruto)4: Kakashi-centric introspection, kakasaku (Naruto)5: Gender-bender fantasy!AU, kakasaku (Naruto)6: Canon-divergence!AU, saisaku (Naruto)7: Canon-divergence!AU, dramione (Harry Potter)8. Bellamy-centric introspection, bellarke (The 100)9. Canon-divergence!AU, bethyl (The Walking Dead)10. Found-family future!fic, no pairing (Miss Stevens)
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, Daryl Dixon/Beth Greene, Haruno Sakura/Hatake Kakashi, Haruno Sakura/Sai, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, William "Billy" Mitman/Rachel Stevens
Comments: 4
Kudos: 40





	1. speak to me (without using your mouth)

**Author's Note:**

> For those who have not yet heard, I am leaving fandom. Fear not, I am not being bullied or harassed. Life is heading in a new, exciting direction for me - _as I posted about on my tumblr (kanamesharisenwrites)_ \- and I've decided to run after my dreams full-force
> 
>  **Fandom** : Naruto  
>  **Pairing** : Kakashi Hatake/Sakura Haruno (intended)  
>  **Word Count** : 600  
>  **Genre** : yakuza!AU  
>  **Warnings** : secondary character death, dark!Sakura, dark!Sasuke, seppuku (mentioned), forced marriage (mentioned)  
>  **Rating** : M

**.**

**.**

**.**

**[** **.oOo.** **]**

Sakura crouches at the foot of her ailing grandmother’s bed, ready to strike. Her tanto is a heavy comfort in her hand, the worn leather of its grip equally comforting in its familiarity. The harsh sounds of a battle filter in from the crack under the door: grunts of pain, the clash of steel, the sickening crunch of broken bones, and the occasional gunshot. Which side has the upper-hand, Sakura can only guess.

The cacophony stops.

The door opens to reveal the leader of the Hebi Clan, Sasuke Uchiha, and a pair of his lackeys, and she springs into action. Sakura fells one of the men and permanently blinds the other before Sasuke disarms her. He pins her arms behind her back with one hand and grabs her chin with the other, forcing her to look at him. His black eyes are cold as he traces the contour of her cheek in a cruel approximation of affection. Sakura spits in his face and smiles.

Sasuke backhands her. “Bitch.” 

The force of it sends Sakura crashing into the wall, and she lands in an inelegant sprawl. Two new thugs replace the ones bleeding out. The first is large and imposing with gentle eyes, while the other carries a sword as sharp as his grin. The swordsman tosses something at her feet as he laughs. It’s the severed head of her grandmother’s second-in-command, Yamato. A wave of nausea floods through Sakura, but she pushes it down. She can’t afford to show weakness right now.

“Suigetsu, that’s enough. Get a team in here to clean up the mess,” Sasuke orders. “I don’t want my new residence littered with this trash.”

“Sure thing, Boss.”

Sakura uses their distraction to pull a dagger from its sheath hidden beneath her skirt. She hesitates, a mere half-second. The hatred in her veins demands vengeance. To go down in a blaze of destructive glory and take as much as she can from her enemy in the process. But her grandmother’s words pound at the back of her skull, demanding to be heard.

_ “If it comes to it, Sakura, don’t be taken alive. For you, it’ll be a hell worse than the one awaiting us in the afterlife. That’s what it means to be the last heir of the Senju clan and a woman.” _

Sakura kneels and turns the dagger inward, then she thrusts with all her might. The blow never lands. As the tip grazes her shirt, slicing the fabric in a small clean line, it is deflected. Sasuke hovers over her, his katana aimed at her head.

“None of those theatrics, please. Can’t have my bride-to-be gutting herself before the wedding.” Sasuke nods to the large man. “Juugo.”

The large lackey picks Sakura up and tosses her over his shoulder. His grip is firm and stifling around her thighs. She pounds her fists against his back so hard she feels the bones in her fingers crack. He shows no reaction. Her fury falls to the floor as Juugo carries her away, but the tears are as futile as her sword and strength.

Sakura lifts her gaze to the nightmare framed by the battle-marked doorway. With slow deliberation, Sasuke picks up Sakura’s discarded dagger and plunges it through her grandmother’s heart. The machines connected to the old woman begin to beep and chirp in an urgent procession. Sasuke twists the weapon and rips away the wires and tubes connecting her grandmother to her life support network. Then he turns towards Sakura with a smirk and flourish of his bloody hands. “Thus dies Tsunade of the Senju Clan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This snippet, like all future additions to this collection, is adoptable, no questions asked
> 
> It is my gift to the KS community, and as such, anyone (and everyone) is free to use it and expound on it along as I (kanames_harisen) am credited for the portion I created


	2. like a crack in my spine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Fandom:** Naruto  
>  **Pairing:** Kakashi Hatake/Sakura Haruno  
>  **Word Count:** 1133  
>  **Genre:** romance/comedy, modern!AU  
>  **Rating:** T+  
>  **Warnings:** profanity, coarse language

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I was so excited when I got this plunnie! It would have - if I'd finished it - been a missed connections, modern rom-com kind of thing. Something along the lines of _Sleepless in Seattle_ or _You've Got Mail_ \- yes, I have a thing for Meg Ryan movies; don't judge me - except with less sappiness, more ridiculous angst over books, and the addition of martial arts. 
> 
> Oh, and Iruka as Kakashi’s long-suffering roommate

**.oOo.**

_Why don’t you show me a little bit of spine  
_ _You’ve been saving for his mattress, love_

– **Dance, Dance by Fall Out Boy** –

**.oOo.**

“Honey, I’m home!”

Iruka toed off his sneakers and slipped into a pair of house shoes. At his announcement, a pack of dogs raced to the foyer to greet him with snuffling noses, wagging tails, and a chorus of happy barks. Iruka set down his keys and grabbed the treat jar, shaking it.

“Who wants a treat?”

The more energetic of the pups yelped and jumped up and down.

“Come on, guys. You know you have to sit to get one. Just like Bull here.” Iruka gave the black bulldog a dental bone and scratched behind his ear. “Good boy. Now, who’s next?”

In unison the rest of the pack sat down, forming a canine half-circle around Iruka.

“All right, here you go, Shiba. And Akino, good boy.” Iruka handed out each treat with a pat. “Here, Uhei and Bisuke and Urushi. Don’t worry, Guruko, I didn’t forget you. Now that just leaves… Pakkun? Where’d you go?” Iruka wandered further into the apartment, looking for the old pug. “Pakkun!”

A strange noise drifted briefly through the hallway from the direction of his roommate’s bedroom. The door stood open. Iruka ceased his calls for the missing dog and crept forward quietly, his senses on high alert. The sound – _a guttural whine_ – started up again, this time with increased volume.

“I swear, Kakashi, if you’re jacking off with the door open again, I’m gonna kill you.”

Iruka turned into the room and, after a second to process the scene, slumped against the door jamb and laughed. Kakashi was sprawled across the left side of his bed, an arm and leg dangling off the edge, with bloody tissues sticking out of both nostrils. Pakkun sat on Kakashi’s belly with an unimpressed expression.

“Damn, you look like shit.”

Kakashi glared at Iruka. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Too bad. I want to know who the hell’s tough enough to kick your ass.”

“It’s a long story.”

Iruka laid down on the right side of the bed, crossed his hands behind his head, and grinned. “I like long stories. Especially about you getting your ass handed to you in a fight.”

“Who said I got in a fight?”

“You’ve got a bloody – _possibly broken_ – nose and a bruise across your throat. Looks like a fight to me.”

Kakashi stared at Iruka, unamused. Iruka settled more comfortably into the bed, fluffing his pillow and crossing his ankles. Kakashi’s stare intensified. Iruka relaxed his body, wiggling his butt into the mattress, and closed his eyes with a contented exhale. Kakashi growled.

“You’re not gonna let it go, are you?”

Iruka cracked open an eyelid. “Nope.”

“I hate you.”

Iruka’s grin returned, and Kakashi sighed. He removed the tissues from his nose, wadding them up and tossing them into the wastebasket next to the door.

“It wasn’t a fight. I just… I startled a girl on the train. I wasn’t paying attention–”

“Reading in public again, I bet.”

“–and I lost my balance at one of the stops. I grabbed her shoulder to keep from falling over and, well…” Kakashi pointed to his face. “This happened.”

“So you’re saying a girl on the train did this to you because she, what?” Iruka rolled onto his side, facing Kakashi. “Thought you were trying to assault her?”

“Probably.” Kakashi shrugged. “She yelled _pervert_ just before she hit me in the nose with a rear back fist.”

“So that explains the face.” Iruka poked the purple skin covering Kakashi’s adam’s apple. “What about this?”

“Ouch.” Kakashi winced and slapped Iruka’s hand. “That was courtesy of a well-timed knife-hand strike.”

Iruka whistled. “Impressive. You okay?”

“Yeah. Nothing I haven’t seen in the ring.” Kakashi turned away from Iruka and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. When he spoke again, his voice was a soft grumble, and pink dusted his cheeks. “My ass hurts, though. And my back. She swept my legs.”

“Triple combo. God, I wish I’d been there.” Iruka looked up, staring at the ceiling with a dreamy expression. “Kakashi-sensei – _retired world-class MMA fighter, martial arts instructor, and local dojo owner_ – taken down by a little girl.”

Kakashi snorted. “She wasn’t a _little_ girl.”

“Oh,” Iruka said with a frown. “I just assumed since you called her a girl, instead of a lady. Or a woman. Or a chick. People still say chick, right?”

“I don’t know.”

“So about this mystery _woman_ …”

“Nope. We’re done.” Kakashi pushed Iruka off the bed and chuckled at the thump he made as he hit the floor. Then Kakashi grabbed his backpack from the foot of his bed. “I’m gonna nurse my injuries with a big dose of the new _Icha Icha_ novel.”

“I can’t believe you canceled your classes to stand in line all day for that stupid book,” Iruka groused as he picked himself off the floor. “The kids were so disappointed.”

“Jiraiya _personally_ signed it.” Kakashi rummaged as he spoke. “You just have no taste. Jiraiya’s writing is brilliant, and his art style is– is...”

Kakashi’s actions grew frantic. After a couple more seconds of unfruitful searching, he dumped the entire contents of his backpack on his bed and spread them out, his breath coming in desperate pants.

“It’s not here. It’s not–” Kakashi picked up a book from the pile – _a medical textbook that was most definitely not his_ – and flopped dramatically, face-first onto the bed. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

“Did you lose your book?”

“Worse.” Kakashi slid off the bed onto his knees, glaring at the textbook still in his hands. “The girl who kicked my ass has it.”

**.oOo.**

Kakashi groaned, swiping a hand across his bleary eyes. Everything hurt. He turned his head to the left, expecting to see the time displayed on his alarm clock, and his neck cracked in a loud pop. He cursed at the sharp accompanying pain, his muscle cords twanging like plucked guitar strings. 

Damn, he’d be fighting a crick for the rest of the day.

He’d fallen asleep on the floor after the shock of losing his beloved book, too miserable to crawl back into the comfort of his bed. The awkward position he found himself in – _a combination of the lotus meditation pose and lying prone, with his dogs draped haphazardly on top of him_ – aggravated his injuries from the previous day. Kakashi extracted his sore limbs from the pile of sleeping puppies so that he was sitting, legs drawn up with his arms resting on his kneecaps, and his breath shuddered as the movement exposed new tender spots. The clock read 5:37 am. Three hours and twenty-three minutes until the bookstore opened for the day.

Kakashi pulled himself onto the bed, threw his blanket over his head, and went back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This snippet, like all future additions to this collection, is adoptable, no questions asked
> 
> It is my gift to the KS community, and as such, anyone (and everyone) is free to use it and expound on it along as I (kanames_harisen) am credited for the portion I created


	3. kingdom come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Fandom:** Naruto  
>  **Pairing:** Kakashi Hatake/Sakura Haruno  
>  **Word Count:** 2217  
>  **Genre:** canon-divergence!AU, drama, angst  
>  **Rating:** M  
>  **Warnings:** brief profanity, abduction, manipulation, brainwashing, dark fic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I love this twisted plunnie! And even though only the opening scene is truly complete, I did finish the first draft for the entire fic (which I’ve included). It’s rough and vague, but the whole plot concept is there!
> 
> Inspired by the story, The Ones that Walk Away from Omelas, by Ursula K Le Guin.

**.oOo.**

_I’m sure if you wanted to stop love  
_ _You could just untie the end and let it go  
_ _But, my god, you don’t; you don’t  
_ _Yeah, I think I love you for it_

–The World is Grey by As Cities Burn –

**.oOo.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

"Where's Sakura?" **  
**

"Gone, obviously." Sasuke laughs, bloody spittle coating his lips. He groans as he pulls his body off the ground. Swelling from a large contusion over his left eye mars his fair face; there is a matching one at the base of his skull. His right arm, severed and cauterized, lies in the dust a few feet away. "If he didn't kill her, Tobi probably took her. He likes shiny new toys."

Kakashi bristles and widens his stance as Sasuke walks towards him. "I want to know what happened. Now."

"Relax, old man, I'm not looking for a fight." Sasuke picks up his arm and throws it over his shoulder. "Sakura told me to get my head out of my ass and go home. That's what I intend to do."

Kakashi eyes Sasuke with suspicion, searching his demeanor for tells of dishonesty. "After all these years, you’ll forgive me if I doubt your word. It's all a little too easy, don't you think?"

"Easy?" Sasuke scoffs and levels Kakashi with a hard stare. "I knew she only wanted to join me so she could capture or kill me. I decided to kill her first – chidori through the heart."

A smirk twists Sasuke's mouth, sharp and cruel, as he watches Kakashi flinch.

"One stab and I'd permanently slice through those bonds Naruto rants about. Only it didn't work. Her chakra neutralized my chidori when she grabbed my arm." Sasuke shakes his head, and his smirk softens. "What the hell have you guys been feeding her, anyway? She's as strong as a fucking ox."

Kakashi shrugs. "Ask Lady Tsunade."

"Figures. Sakura managed this," Sasuke gestures to his missing arm, "with nothing but a chakra scalpel. Pulled the rest of it through her body like she was unsheathing a sword. Then she beat me unconscious with my own severed appendage. Last thing I saw was the hole in her chest close up like it'd never been there."

"You were a fool to underestimate her."

"So were you."

**.**

**.**

**.**

**[ .oOo. ]**

Kakashi leaves his office and stops by the memorial to grieve Naruto and Sasuke.

He speaks to Sakura, even though she’s not there. “If you’d been here, maybe…”

**.**

**.**

**.**

**[ .oOo. ]**

Shikamaru gives Kakashi his weekly “state of the village” report.

Kakashi asks about Sakura sightings; there’s been none.

Shikamaru turns to leave, but stops. Tells Kakashi he thinks it’s time to give up the hunt.

After Shikamaru leaves, Kakashi stares out the office window and wonders aloud why he’s still there when everyone important to him is gone.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**[ .oOo. ]**

Sakura comes to him in a dream. She’s older - ethereal yet weary-looking. She reminds him why he needs to stay, about the good he brings to the village, to the world. When she goes to leave, he chases her, promises to find her. She looks puzzled.

“Why, sensei? I was never lost in the first place.”

Kakashi wakes up in tears.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**[ .oOo. ]**

When Kakashi makes his weekly trip to the memorial, Karin is there. He’s tired and his memory is fuzzy; he doesn’t remember her at first. When he does, he’s surprised. He didn’t think she’d stay in the village without Sasuke.

“Visiting Konoha, huh?”

“Hardly.” She huffs. “I never left.”

“Strange. I never see you around.”

“I keep a low profile. The village isn’t especially kind to Orochimaru’s castoffs.”

“Why do you stay, then?”

Karin pauses, her fingers hovering over Sasuke’s name. When she speaks, it’s slow, deliberate.

“Because that’s what he would’ve wanted. For me to carry on in his stead.”

**.**

**.**

**.**

**[ .oOo. ]**

Kakashi dreams of Sakura again. She seems disconcerted that he acknowledges her - _you weren’t supposed to know that I’m here, sensei_ \- but speaks with him anyway. It’s a soft, gentle conversation, and it lulls him into a deeper, dreamless sleep.

He wakes up more rested than he has in a long time, but his mind anxious.

Sakura seemed too sentient for a figment of his subconscious.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**[ .oOo. ]**

Shizune comes to see him, asks how life as Hokage is going.

Kakashi admits it’s boring - too much paperwork, too little action. Village life has become too idyllic since the end of the war, to the point that it feels unnatural.

Shizune says she feels it too.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**[ .oOo. ]**

Kakashi starts dreaming of Sakura every night. 

He tells her silly stories about the new batch of genin trying to unmask him. She shares some of Tsunade’s most “creative” teaching techniques.

She asks him how the village is doing. He tries to explain how it’s so perfect it feels wrong, but can’t quite find the words. Her coy smile suggests she understands anyway.

He asks her to stop calling him “sensei.” She laughs and calls him “Lord Hokage.”

He thanks her for keeping his nightmares at bay. She asks him what his nightmares are, but he doesn’t answer.

After a few nights where he dreams they walk through the forest without talking, he finally opens up.

Before her, he dreamed about lightning and blood: his chidori through Rin’s chest; Obito crushed and plucking out his own eye in offering; Naruto and Sasuke’s lifeless bodies on the battlefield still holding hands; searching for Sakura in an endless maw of darkness.

Sakura holds his hand and cries. Her hand feels so real, so warm and solid, that it wakes him up.

In his next dream, he confronts her. Begs her to tell him where she went, what happened to her. Sakura goes pale. When she tries to speak, she writhes in pain as if the words she meant to say were choking her. She falls to her knees and looks up at him, still no words falling from her open mouth. But he sees it - the Root seal on her tongue. 

He wakes up angry.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**[ .oOo. ]**

Kakashi calls Sai to his office and asks questions about Root. Even though it’s been years since Danzo’s execution, Sai can’t answer and it leaves Kakashi frustrated as well as angry.

That night, Kakashi doesn’t dream of Sakura. He dreams of the absence of her.

He dreams about capturing Sasuke and bringing him back. Of entrusting Sakura's rescue to Naruto and Sai. Of their return, empty-handed.

He dreams of Naruto’s grief and anger and disbelief - that Root (Danzo) captured Karin, but found no trace of Sakura. Of Sai's silent lips and clenched fists.

The memories fall away and Kakashi calls for Sakura in the dark void of his dream until his throat is raw. 

She doesn’t come.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**[ .oOo. ]**

Kakashi sees Karin at the memorial again.

She seems agitated, on edge, but she extends a gruff invite to her place for tea.

He declines.

She tells him she lives in a small house painted yellow at the foot of Hokage Mountain, if he changes his mind. 

That night he dreams of Obito, of the Tobi mask falling away revealing his old teammate. Of cruel taunts - _so, poor, tragic, Kakashi lost another kunoichi -_ and cryptic denials - _come on, Kakashi, I’d need more than one Sharingan to capture that sweet little cherry_ \- and unfounded accusations - _sounds like an inside job, if you ask me_. 

Kakashi wakes in a cold sweat.

Then he goes in search of Karin’s house.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**[ .oOo. ]**

Karin seems almost relieved to see him. She opens the door and he steps inside. Immediately, he can feel it; Sakura’s chakra signature rolls over him like a wave.

Karin leads him to the basement.

Sakura sits in a dingy, old recliner in nothing but a bra and training shorts. A crown of wires connects her to a wall of softly whirring machinery. She opens her brilliant green eyes and smiles.

“Kakashi!”

He turns to Karin. “Unhook her. _Now_.”

“It’s not as simple as that. If we--”

“If you don’t do it, I will.”

“No, you can’t!” Sakura screams. “If you do, the village will be destroyed!”

**.**

**.**

**.**

**[ .oOo. ]**

Kakashi sits silently fuming in a meeting with the village council and the daimyo. They throw a lot of facts around: higher birth rates, reduced healing times for injuries, near elimination of sickness, increased shinobi numbers and quality, improved financial stability, etc. It doesn’t take long for him to realize.

“You authorized this project of Danzo’s.”

“Of course. How else do you think he got the technology to accomplish such a feat?”

“I suppose it’s pointless to petition for this project’s end.”

“We truly are sorry, Kakashi. We didn’t know your kunoichi was the one chosen for the experiment. But it has turned out so well for the village. I hope you understand.”

“I do,” Kakashi says. 

He walks out.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**[ .oOo. ]**

Kakashi visits Karin and Sakura again, asks them to tell him everything they know about Sakura’s situation: unhooking Sakura will reverse all the good her chakra network has accomplished.

 _Absolute, utter destruction_ , they say.

Kakashi seethes. “Danzo was a fucking liar.”

“Maybe.” Sakura shakes her head. “But I can’t take that chance.”

Kakashi storms off.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**[ .oOo. ]**

Kakashi summons Shikamaru.

“The safety of our civilians has been weighing on me.”

“You know something I don’t?”

“Just… been thinking. How many times has a significant threat infiltrated our security in your lifetime, Shikamaru?”

“Point taken. What do you want to do?”

“I want you to develop a village-wide evacuation plan. Be sure to include provisions for temporary shelter and two week’s worth of rations for every family. I expect a working model ready for drills by the end of the month.”

“Yes, Lord Hokage.”

**.**

**.**

**.**

**[ .oOo. ]**

Kakashi arrives at Karin’s house with Sai. He tells her to leave, to follow the rest of her neighbors to their designated rendezvous point.

“She’s gonna hate you.”

“I know.”

When Kakashi enters the basement, Sakura is waiting for him, ready to strike. 

“Don’t make me fight you.”

“It’s time to let go, Sakura.”

“I can’t. The village will collapse and people will die. I can’t have that on my conscience. I can’t be why Konoha disappears!”

“Konoha isn’t a place. It’s the people who live with the will of fire in their hearts. And those people have been evacuated. They are safe. Konoha will survive.”

Sakura squares her shoulders and chin, digging in her heels. “I’m a kunoichi. My purpose is to be of use to my village, no matter the sacrifice.”

“You are of more use to your village free than you will ever be wasting away in this damned basement!”

“But the village--”

“Fuck the village. It can burn to the ground as long as I know you’re safe. You’re it, Sakura. You’re all I have left.” Kakashi's voice cracks. “I can’t lose you to this.”

Sakura lowers her fists. “I’m scared.”

“I know. But it will be okay, I promise.” Kakashi presses the button on his earpiece. “Shikamaru, are we good to go?” After the affirmative answer crackles in his ear, Kakashi turns back to Sakura. “Do you trust me?”

Sakura nods.

“Sai is waiting for us upstairs. He’s ready to fly us out of here if needed.” Kakashi takes her hand. “Tell me what to do.”

“You’re sure everyone is safe?”

“I’m sure.”

“Flip that lever.”

The rumbling begins almost immediately. Kakashi scoops her up, pulling the crown from her head and smashing it to the ground. Sai spies them from his perch on his ink bird and if he’s surprised by Sakura’s presence, he doesn’t show it. They fly away, watching as a crater of rubble forms where Konoha once stood.

Sakura weeps as Kakashi holds her to his chest.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**[ .oOo. ]**

There are a lot of questions. He answers them as honestly and as vaguely as he can, leaving Sakura out of the story altogether. Some people are scared. Some are angry. Most are just thankful for their tents, their food, and their lives. This isn’t the first time they’ve had to rebuild.

After the village settles down for the night, Kakashi patrols the perimeter of the wreckage. The only thing left intact is the memorial stone. He stands there for a long time reading the names carved on its surface. The moon rises and the first chill of autumn settles in his bones.

Someone takes his hand… Sakura.

“Do you regret it?” she asks.

“No,” he answers. She shivers, so he pulls her into his arms. “Do you?”

"Yes."

The word leaves her on an exhale, as quiet and forceful as the wind. A tear escapes her, splatters against the chilled skin of his forearm.

"It's gut-wrenching, knowing what my freedom cost. I think a part of me will always feel that way." She runs her fingers over their teammates' names, slow and reverent. "But one day, maybe..."

"Then I'll hold onto it for you."

She glances at him over her shoulder, confused. "Hold onto what?"

He breathes in deep, squeezing her tight. With a kiss to her temple, he answers, "The hope for that _one day_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This snippet, like all future additions to this collection, is adoptable, no questions asked
> 
> It is my gift to the KS community, and as such, anyone (and everyone) is free to use it and expound on it along as I (kanames_harisen) am credited for the portion I created


	4. paucity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Fandom:** Naruto  
>  **Pairing:** Kakashi Hatake/Sakura Haruno (intended)  
>  **Word Count:** 603  
>  **Genre:** kakashi-centric  
>  **Rating:** T  
>  **Warnings:** canon-typical childhood trauma  
>  **Summary:** // paucity - the presence of something only in small or insufficient quantities; see also: the history of one Kakashi Hatake’s sex life //

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I started this fic as a counterpoint to all the "Kakashi-is-a-sex-god" content I've seen over the years. It was going to explore how his past trauma - _his dad's suicide, underage integration into the shinobi system, losing every member of his team (including two people he had burgeoning crushes on)_ \- a lackluster first experience, and the unrealistic expectations created by his early exposure to pornographic materials led to Kakashi choosing a life of celibacy. Fast forward to him as a very frustrated Hokage with Sakura as his personal physician, and we have a recipe for some emotionally-heavy sexual healing.
> 
> (unfortunately, I never got past Kakashi at age six)

**[ age 5 ]**

Kakashi stands before the Hokage to receive his hitai-ite, dwarfed by the academy teachers that flank him on either side. Hiruzen studies him for a moment, taking his measure. Kakashi endures it in the same manner as the rest of the attention he receives: detached, aloof, and silent.

"So young," Hiruzen says, lips pressed thin. "Are you sure you're ready to be a shinobi?" The teacher on Kakashi's right opens her mouth to speak, but Hiruzen raises his hand. "The question is for the boy."

"Yes, I am, Lord Hokage." 

The words tumble from his lips reflexively, mechanical and dull. But he feels the truth of them beating through his tiny heart. All he has left is the shinobi blood running through his veins, the deed to his father's ancestral home, and a shame that should not be his to bear. If becoming a tool for Konoha preserves what little he has, Kakashi will grasp that fate and never let go. Yes, he is young. But he understands enough of the world to know this path is preferable to the others he could take. He holds the Hokage's piercing gaze and stands his ground.

Hiruzen nods and walks away. "Very well."

He sits at his desk and pulls out a thin folder. Then he stamps the first page with his official seal of approval.

"Congratulations, Kakashi of the Hatake clan. You are now a genin. You'll receive your first assignment within the week."

"Thank you, Lord Hokage."

Hiruzen eyes him again, a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. After a few more seconds of deliberation, he opens a drawer and takes out a different stamp and ink well. A bright red seal is pressed onto the front of Kakashi's folder with a firm, determined hand.

"You are dismissed."

_(Later, after he's come to terms with the injustice that permeated his childhood, Kakashi thanks Hiruzen for this small act of mercy. At least one piece of his innocence is his own to lose as he sees fit.)_

**[ age 6 ]**

Kakashi works without a team for the first year of his shinobi career. He is, however, assigned a mentor for training purposes. 

Most of Kakashi's missions involve using his presence to complete the disguise of an adult jounin while serving as their back-up. The tactic is not uncommon in the shinobi world. But few young ninja carry the skill set Kakashi does. The expert lethality hidden behind his cherub cheeks takes both enemies and allies by surprise. His excellent track record commends him. When the next chuunin exams come around, one of his former colleagues scouts him for a vacant spot on the team under their care.

Kakashi is the only member of the team that makes it through the first round.

In the finals, the blase manner in which he executes violence against his much older opponent earns him a ruthless reputation. Murmurs roll through the crowd when he is crowned champion, suspicious and skeptical. Grim lines mark Hiruzen’s face as he bestows Kakashi with the rank of chuunin. His trainer, Minato-sensei, is the only adult to offer him a genuine, heartfelt congratulation. 

As the crowds begin to disperse, Kakashi spies several of the children he knows from his brief time at the academy. Some glare. Others turn their noses up and walk away. A few faces hold terrified expressions, eyes wide and skittish. But at the front of the group, Obito stands with a grin and gives Kakashi a thumbs-up. On Obito's right, Rin smiles and waves shyly. 

_(At the sight, Kakashi's heart thumps, and for the first time, he feels victorious.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This snippet, like all future additions to this collection, is adoptable, no questions asked
> 
> It is my gift to the KS community, and as such, anyone (and everyone) is free to use it and expound on it along as I (kanames_harisen) am credited for the portion I created


	5. songbird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Fandom:** Naruto  
>  **Pairing:** Sakura/Kakashi  
>  **Word Count:** 7800  
>  **Rating:** T  
>  **Genre:** Fantasy AU, Romance, Gender-bender  
>  **Warnings:** Language, Sensuality, Implied sexual situations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you - if you've been following me long enough - may remember this story. I deleted it a few years ago when I lost the notebook that contained my outline and notes. The plot was a complicated one, woven out of fairy-tale style reimaginings of Naruto lore, and without my notes, I couldn't figure out where to go next. Besides, for all the work I put into it, I received very little feedback - like maybe 3 or 4 comments - and I figured no one would miss it. 
> 
> I still love it, though. So I'm reposting it here, in all its _Kakashi as a magically-bound bodyguard disguised as a concubine _glory!__

_._

_._

_._

**( p r e l u d e )**

**. ~ {** _that which comes before and leads to something else_ **} ~ .**

**.**

_Long ago, the enemies of Konoha – Suna, Oto, and Akatsuki – came together to besiege the fair country. They claimed to have been wronged by the previous ruler and demanded recompense in the form of the dissolution of Konoha’s monarchy by its current leader’s beheading. King Hashirama, being quite fond of his head, attempted to negotiate a peace treaty, but it was to no avail. In truth, there had been no offense; the foreign kings wanted nothing more than to plunder its riches, each wishing to take a part of Konoha for themselves. Thus, they were rigid in their demands - only the king’s blood would appease them._

_As the months passed in a stalemate, the kingdom began to fall into despair._

_You see, Konoha was not always the strong kingdom it is today. It did not have armies of soldiers with war horses and forged weapons. During the time that the Senju clan ruled, there was only one regiment in its army, and the might of those few, though highly skilled they were, would not be enough to protect the people. The horde would surely overrun them, once the siege had sufficiently weakened the men of Konoha. It was only a matter of time._

_Worried for his life and throne, King Hashirama took aside Madara of the Uchiha clan, his right-hand man and warrior of unique skill, and gave him a task of utmost importance – to find the Tree of Life. And so, with a supply-laded horse, an ancient scroll recounting the Tree’s location, and his sword, Madara stealthily made haste to the country of Taki. After two days of hard riding and avoiding enemy scouts, he found the Valley of Waterfalls, hidden deep within the dense forest. As the meadow opened up before him, the path he had been following ended abruptly. In the distance, he could see a single tree – unnaturally tall, with its leaves shimmering magically in the bright sun – and Madara knew that it was his destination. Dismounting his steed, the soldier made the rest of the journey by foot._

_The valley, though picturesque with its extravagant flora and lush green grass, gave off a chilling aura. It unsettled the man, but he merely drew his sword and continued on. As he neared the outer roots of the massive tree, bones began to litter the earthen floor, femurs and skulls that could only be identified as human. But still, the man did not falter. No, it was only when Madara saw a woman, perched serenely on one of the tree’s sturdy branches, that he slowed his steps._

_She was otherworldly, with long pale hair and strange markings upon her brow. Power rolled off of her in unseen waves, leaving an acrid scent in his nostrils, and the fine hairs on his neck stood on end. Instinct had him gripping his sword tighter, readying himself for battle. But Madara, his eyes shifting from deepest black to glowing scarlet, pushed down the urge and cast aside his weapon, burying the point deep into the loamy soil._

_You see, Madara had a gift, one that made him either a rather formidable foe. His eyes could pierce the heart, revealing desires and exposing truths hidden behind a well-kept façade._

_This woman carried both death and life in her heart, and which one she would choose to heap upon him depended entirely on his own actions. Should he choose violence, she would sever his head from his body with but a thought, such was the extent of her magic._

_Madara wisely chose life._

_Surprised by his gesture, the woman’s heart softened towards him and she spoke, “You are the first to have ever lain down arms before me. Traveler, what is it that you seek?”_

_“Simply your name, milady,” he replied in a reverent hush, as one besotted, “and to be in your presence for as long as you will allow. In truth, I was sent out on a mission to retrieve the fruit from the Tree. My land is besieged and my King in great peril. But none of that is of any consequence now, not in the light of your beauty.”_

_She leapt to the ground, landing lightly on her toes, and began to circle around him. Her eyes ran over his form and studied his expression, and when she could find no fault in either, she spoke again. “You may call me Kaguya. Come, Traveler, you must be weary.”_

_Madara eagerly followed Kaguya to her home. His ploy had worked, and now that she believed him to be smitten with her, he could manipulate the situation to his own will. Kaguya was indeed very beautiful, her visage more pleasing than any of the women in Konoha, and her powers enticed him. With her at his side – her magic loyal to him, her blood swimming through his descendants’ veins – he could build the Uchiha clan a glorious future. So when night fell and he could see the loneliness grow in her heart, Madara seduced her._

_In the morning, he asked Kaguya to return to Konoha with him. At first, she refused. Her soul was bound to the power of the fruit and thus, her body could not leave its side. But when Madara persisted, she plucked the fruit from the top of the Tree, carefully wrapping it within the folds of her robes, and went with him. Along the way, the woman worked her magic, cloaking their presence from Konoha’s enemies, and they reached the King’s keep on the sixth day after Madara’s departure._

_Murmurs of their arrival preceded them, and King Hashirama had them brought directly to his throne room. There Hashirama met them and, forgoing the customary greeting, demanded that they hand over the fruit. The change in the King’s countenance – his hair and clothes unkempt, bloodshot eyes holding an unnatural sheen – was drastic, and Madara feared Kaguya’s retribution at being treated so poorly. But the woman merely bowed graciously before the crazed man, offering the fruit to him._

_“The fruit holds the power of longevity and resilience, granting any who partake of it those same qualities. A single bite is sufficient.”_

_“I am already aware, you stupid wench,” Hashirama answered as he snatched it from her hands. “Now I shall be a god among mortals!”_

_The King took a large bite and, as the juice dribbled down his chin, an energy settled over him. He gazed down at the fruit in his hands in wonder, feeling the power begin to course through his veins, and the need for more consumed him. Hashirama took another bite and was struck down dead._

_“I told you that one bite was sufficient,” Kaguya spat out at the corpse, eyes narrowed in contempt. “You should have listened. Greed corrupts the fruit’s gift.”_

_“What shall we do now?” Madara asked, looking at his fallen lord. “Without a king, Konoha’s enemies will surely attack.”_

_“It needn’t be without, love. Here,” – Kaguya placed the fruit into his open palm – “eat and we shall meet your enemies together.”_

_Madara rolled the fruit over, running his fingertips over its smooth skin. The flesh was whole once again, as if Hashirama had never taken a bite of it all, let alone a second. Finding the woman’s words about the fruit to be true, he took a single bite._

_Then, hand in hand with his future wife, Madara laid waste to the armies of Konoha’s enemies, ushering in an era of peace and prosperity._

**{ oOo }**

The storyteller ended his narration, the puppets of the triumphant couple bowing their wooden heads low to the makeshift stage, and the crowd began to disperse. The old man, short and squat, shook his empty collection tin, raising his voice to encourage those within hearing range to offer payment for their enjoyment of his services. Some readily complied, their money tinkling merrily against the metal container, though most people avoided his eyes and scuttled away.

Sakura stood in the shadows, her gray garments blending into the cold stone at her back, and watched the entertainer shake his head in disappointment at the meager sum he had collected. The young woman pulled her thin cloak more securely around her body, careful to keep her face hidden deep within its hood, and she stepped seamlessly into the moving mass of people. In her pocket, she rubbed two worn coins between her fingers, before squeezing them tightly into her palm. 

She knew she shouldn’t do it. That little bit of money was all she had left, aside from the clothes on her back. Not to mention that the old man’s tale wasn’t even true to history; the story was merely a pretty piece of propaganda spread throughout the land by the current ruling family, something that she loathed to support. But another glance at the man – his face pale, with sunken eyes and shoulders hunched in resignation – and the deal was sealed. Sakura tossed the coins into the tin with the rest of the show’s earnings and quickly left the courtyard.

Her stomach growled in protest.

With an arm wrapped around her middle, a vain attempt to dull the growing ache, Sakura put her head down and walked on. Finding a meal wouldn’t be that difficult of an endeavor today, anyway. 

It was the current king’s twenty-first birthday and the city was bustling, with both the commoners and the upper class taking part in the festival for his honor. Plays, historical recitations, and puppet shows – like the one Sakura just witnessed – were taking place in each of the various neighborhoods of Konoha. Large, colorful tents littered the streets, creating spaces for merchants to sell their wares. There were areas devoted to games of skill, wherein a child could win a prize or a young man could hope to impress a young lady. Other sections boasted festival keepsakes, like dolls handcrafted into the likeness of the Uchiha monarchs or red and white paper fans that mimicked the Uchiha clan crest. 

In the past, Sakura would have been filled with excitement at the prospect of these things, of playing games and shopping and celebrating. But not now, not when so much had changed for her. No, now her only objective was to find one of the many food tents, using her wiles to secure a meal, and find a place to sleep for the night.

So as Sakura walked, her shrewd green eyes surveyed the crowd. Food vendors were some of the poorest working people in the city and her conscience would not allow her to steal from them, no matter how hungry she was. But stealing from the wealthy? That she had no qualms about. All she needed was to find the right target.

It took a few minutes, but the young woman eventually found her mark. The man looked to be very nearly her own age, somewhere in his late teens or early twenties, and his fine cloak was a gaudy orange that clashed terribly with his golden blond hair. A large green money pouch hung from his belt in plain sight, jangling happily on his hip like a bullfrog full of flies, as he made his way through the food tent. His tan face held an open, naïve sort of smile and he greeted everyone he passed with equal enthusiasm.

He was perfect.

Sakura followed a few paces behind him, keeping him in sight at all times, and was pleased when his destination turned out to be a noodle vendor. She waited until he’d received his order and, as he began to walk away with the steaming cup, she moved directly into his path. Caught up in his meal as he was, the man didn’t even see her. The collision, her shoulder bumping firmly into his chest, put them both off-balance and the noodles jostled roughly about, spilling down his front and over Sakura’s hood.

“I am so sorry,” Sakura exclaimed, staring at the man with a look of affected horror. Then she pulled her handkerchief from her pocket and began to sop up the mess from his shirt. “I should have been watching where I was going. Please, sir, let me help you.”

“Don’t worry about it. These things happen, right?” he replied with a grin. His blue eyes twinkled merrily. “Besides, it just gives me a reason to get some more noodles. Mr. Ichiraku makes the best in all the city!”

She stowed the cloth away and bowed. “You’re very kind, sir.”

“Really, it’s nothing,” he said as he turned back the direction he’d just come from, moving back towards the noodle stall. Then he called over his shoulder, “Enjoy the rest of the festival!”

“Thanks, I will.” 

As she walked away, Sakura patted her pocket and the muffled tinkling of the coins wrapped inside her handkerchief made her grin.

She’d eat well tonight.

**{ oOo }**

“Time to wake up, boy.”

Sakura gasped as her back met forcefully with the alleyway wall, and her eyes flew open. It took a couple of seconds to gather her wits, to reorient herself with the waking world, but when she did, she nearly groaned.

Her assailant towered over her by at least a foot and his pale frame, colored an unnatural gray-blue, was muscled and sturdy. On his back, there was a large sword the make of which she had never seen before. His eyes caught her line of sight and with a menacing grin, he gnashed his oddly-pointed teeth at her, smiling widely when she flinched. There was something predatory, almost shark-like about him. He was not from Konoha, that much was for certain.

 _Dammit_ , she inwardly groused, _this is not how I wanted to wake up this morning._

She kicked out at the goon, striking his abdomen sharply with her heel, but it had no helpful effect. The vice-grip on her cloak merely tightened, pinning her more firmly against the solid stone. As Sakura moved to strike again, this time with her knee, the man countered the attack by thumping her over the head. The force of the blow made her vision swim and her eyes water, yet she refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing her cry out. 

“That’s enough, Kisame,” a second man ordered, and Sakura stiffened, instantly recognizing the deep, aloof voice. Half hidden in the long, early morning shadows was none other than Itachi, traitor of the Uchiha clan. He stepped into the light and calmly continued. “Miss Sakura is a lady and should be treated as such. I don’t appreciate you roughing up those in my employ.”

“Are you sure?” Kisame looked her over, up and down and back again, and frowned. “Rather scrawny for a woman, if you catch my meaning. Not dressed the part either. I mean look at the thing - it’s wearing breeches.” 

Sakura started to struggle again and this time, he let her go. The suddenness of his release caught her off guard and caused her to stumble. In the process, her hood fell backward, exposing her head.

Kisame let out a short whoop of a laugh. “Now I see. No man,” – one hand caught her roughly by the chin while the smoothed over her short hairstyle – “has a face that pretty. Or pink hair.”

Sakura’s cheeks burned red as she jerked away from his touch. It wasn’t often that her ruse got discovered, but the reaction to it was almost always the same – disrespect. And she hated it, the differences in the way people treated her when they thought she was a man from how they treated her when they knew she was a woman. It was the reason she dressed as she did; she was a woman alone in a man’s world and she needed every advantage just to survive.

“New partner, I see,” she spat out at the Uchiha. “What happened to Shisui? Did he finally get tired of your shit?”

“Now, Sakura,” Itachi chided, “you know we’re not here to talk about that. We’re here because you’ve failed, yet again, to bring me what I want.”

Sakura bristled. “I did exactly what you told me to, but it wasn’t in the royal vaults. I held up my end of the bargain. It was your information that was bad.” She crossed her arms, her green eyes defiant. “ _Again_.”

“I’ve had some issues ascertaining the location. It seems that Sasuke has decided to move it,” he conceded. “But that does not change the terms of our contract. I am beginning to run out of patience.”

“Unless you have some new information for me to go on, this conversation is pointless.”

“Running away, huh? Won’t Sasori love to hear that?” Kisame interjected. “He’s been chomping at the bit to get at your old lady. Chiyo was her name? Oh yeah, that’s it. He’s just waiting for word that you’ve failed, then he’s going to play with her real good. When he’s done with her, she’ll be nothing more than a shell.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary quite yet. Do you, Sakura?” Itachi stalked forward, his aura full of cold menace, and whispered into her ear. “You have a fortnight. After that, I will turn your dear granny over to the Puppetmaster. I’m sure you’ve heard all about what he does to his victims.”

“Yes,” she whispered back. Panic swelled inside her throat, making the airway tight, and breathing became a difficult thing. Sakura gulped and forced the feeling back down, letting it settle instead as nausea in her belly. Then after a long, steadying exhale, she challenged the man once again. “But how the hell am I to manage it if I don’t know where to look?”

“I think you’ll _manage_ just fine.” Itachi smiled and slipped a folded piece of parchment into the pocket of her cloak. “Come, Kisame. We’ve lingered too long.”

“Well, I guess I’ll see you around, girlie.”

Sakura held her ground until she was sure that they were truly gone, and then she emptied her stomach, collapsing onto her knees on the dirty cobblestone floor. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as she thought about Granny Chiyo at the hands of that madman, but she refused to let them fall. There was simply no time for dramatics. She had to be strong, had to save the old woman. Sakura composed herself as best she could and, after roughly rubbing her sleeve over her face a couple of times, she pulled out the paper that Itachi had given to her.

_It is in the Concubine’s care._

_Plain mahogany box with a silver lock._

_Magically warded and sealed._

_Be on guard for her familiar._

_The Songbird’s tune can still the beating of a human heart._

.

.

.

**( e t u d e )**

**. ~ {** _that which is a study or exercise in technique_ **} ~ .**

**.**

Sakura put her hands on her hips and looked up at the dark sky. The only illumination, apart from the faint twinkling of the stars, came from the pair of torches standing sentinel on either side of the castle’s main entrance. The moon was nowhere to be seen, invisible in its waning cycle.

The structure in front of her could be described as imposing or intimidating, Sakura supposed. And in fact, that was exactly what most people thought upon seeing it for the first time. It rose from the ground in a grand, triple-forked spiral, a hundred-foot wonder of architectural form, and was surrounded on three sides by a curved stone wall, nearly fifty high and twenty feet wide. Each section of the spiral was a separate wing of the castle – one for the royal family, one for guests, and one for the servants – and the space created between each section had corresponding uses. There were separate courtyards and walking gardens, in various degrees of opulence, for both the royal family and guest wings, while a vegetable garden and orchard adjoined the servants’ section. 

Behind the castle stood an enormous cliff of pure granite, the majority of its face sheer and smooth, which completed the circle of protection around the Uchiha clan’s grounds. Craftsmen skilled in the art of stone masonry were kept on retainer by each generation of the ruling family and their work could be seen on a portion of the natural formation. Each Uchiha king and queen that had sat upon Konoha’s throne – Madara, Kaguya, Zetsu, Obito, and now, Sasuke – was immortalized in the great rock, their carved faces glaring down on the city below. The stern stone monarchs could be seen from miles away, a not-so-subtle reminder as to whom presided over the land.

The sound of raucous laughter drifted out from the guard shack situated just to the left of the gate, drawing Sakura’s attention, and she melted into the deeper shadows at her back. A few moments later, it subsided and silence once again settled over the sleepy city. 

With a shake of her head and a wide, wide grin, Sakura walked around the corner.

It was time to implement her plan. 

**{ oOo }**

“You there, take this up to Master Naruto’s study, then report to Karin in the upper supply room. They need another set of hands in housekeeping.” The King’s head of household, a soft-spoken man named Juugo, gave her an appraising once-over. “I hope you’re a hard worker. That woman can be rather demanding.”

Sakura took the proffered platter, heavy with succulent fruits, rich cheeses, and two servings of fragrant noodles, and nodded. “Yes, sir, I am.”

Her affirmation did nothing to remove the doubtful look on his face, but his attention was soon diverted by the query of another employee. She was dismissed after receiving a vague description of where her destination was located and, after shifting her burden to rest steadily on her shoulder, Sakura left to carry out her task. 

Master Naruto wasn’t there when she arrived, much to her disappointment. Sakura was curious, after all. The story going around Konoha was that Naruto, the last living member of the much respected Uzumaki clan, was not actually the King’s chief advisor, but rather his most favored consort. Meeting the man behind the rumor, seeing for herself if he was truly as handsome as the tales portrayed to be, would have brightened her day considerably. She contemplated lingering just a bit, on the off-chance that he would arrive soon. But since she was positive that she had the correct room – it had been easy to locate, in spite of the lousy instructions she’d received – Sakura merely left the meal on the man’s desk and went about her business. There was no sense in getting into trouble for snooping on her first day, not when said trouble could hinder her mission.

Finding Karin wasn’t hard either, as this wasn’t Sakura’s first time in the castle. Nor was it her second or third, for that matter. In trying to retrieve Itachi’s item, she had infiltrated the place on many occasions. It was quite a simple endeavor, actually. 

King Sasuke was a proud man, possessing an extra helping of the quiet strength and unnatural vigor that the Uchiha clan was known for. From the time he was but a boy, his tutors were amazed by his genius, both in academics and physical pursuits. Unlike many of the previous rulers, he chose to stand on his own strength and did not keep a bodyguard or royal forces within the castle. There were wards, of course – put in place by his concubine, a woman said to be greatly skilled in protective magicks – which prevented his known enemies from entering, and a pair of guards were stationed outside at the sturdy iron gate. But all other threats the King chose to dispatch himself. The lack of watchful personnel that this system brought about worked in Sakura’s favor; sneaking in was easy if you knew what weaknesses to exploit.

So here she was, dressed in the practical blue uniform worn by the King’s lower servants – a long, cinched tunic with breeches and a headscarf – with free rein to wander about the place virtually unimpeded. She had pilfered the garments from the laundry the previous night, gaining access through one of the many water outlets that the room contained. In the morning, she’d donned the outfit and reported for duty as a new employee. As there was a high turnover rate for those in the King’s domestic employ, no one had been the wiser.

Sakura spent the rest of the day doing exactly as she was told, keeping her head down and working diligently at all her assigned tasks. Karin truly was a tyrant, taking extra pleasure in seeing Sakura given all the most disgusting jobs. But Sakura held her tongue and worked on. This was an important part of her plan. If she was going to make it past the Concubine and her Songbird, Sakura needed inside information, some solid reconnaissance, and she knew her best bet was here. Someone had to know something. After all, a concubine wasn’t exactly in the habit of cleaning her own chambers or cooking her own meals.

So throughout the day Sakura studied the layout of the castle interior, taking special note of areas she hadn’t previously been in, and kept her eyes and ears open, all while trying not to give her boss a reason to single her out. Then, as the night deepened, she drifted off after the long day’s work – in her tiny bed in her equally tiny assigned room – and tried to push down the growing need to punch Karin in the throat. Or the glasses… oh yes, definitely the glasses.

 _It could be worse_ , Sakura thought as her brain began to shut down. _It’s better than digging through garbage and sleeping with rats._ Then an image flashed behind her eyes – her boss’s smile, twisted with manic glee – and it made Sakura amend her mental statement. 

_Well, the food’s better, but I think I prefer the rats._

**{ oOo }** _  
_

Her second day was marginally better than her first, at least in terms of her mission.

While scrubbing out an entire castle’s worth of chamber pots, Sakura got an earful of the latest gossip, courtesy of a butler-in-training and the chef’s pretty assistant. Most of it was inane dribble – a foreign dignitary caught with his children’s governess, a female stable-hand fired for flirting with Master Naruto in the King’s presence, and other such stories – but there was one tidbit that sent her pulse racing. 

It happened so quickly that she almost missed it, the mild complaint from the kitchen worker about the uppity attitude of the Concubine’s personal maidservant. In that brief moment of grumbling, Sakura finally got the vital piece of information that she needed to proceed to phase two of her plan – a name.

 _Ino of the Yamanaka clan_.

It was a solid bit of progress, and it brought her that much closer to being able to quit the pretense of being a good little servant. Surely the Concubine’s personal servant could enter her master’s quarters and as such would have knowledge about how to deal with the Songbird. With a little luck, Sakura could be ready to enter the final phase of her mission by tomorrow night.

She probably should have felt some sort of relief, or maybe exultation, over that small triumph, but as Sakura continued to scrub away the piss and shit from the royal crappers, she felt nothing but the desire to see Karin, that red-haired demon, on the business end of her fist.

**{ oOo }**

Sakura’s third day was spent in the futile pursuit of tracking down one Ino Yamanaka. 

The woman proved to be quite an obscure target. According to the bits of gossip Sakura had gleaned since her arrival, Ino wasn’t required to be at any of the otherwise mandatory staff meetings and she had no supervisor to report to, instead being directly accountable to the Concubine. That meant she was rarely in the employee common areas. And since Ino was responsible for all of her master’s needs – from cleaning to food preparation and everything in between – she was never in any one place for very long.

To top off the already-challenging situation, due to the need to avoid suspicion, Sakura was limited to indirect queries about the maidservant. It wasn’t like it was on the streets, where she could interrogate to her heart’s content for the price of a couple of coins, safe under the anonymity of her hooded cloak, and then simply walk away. No, here she was a known entity and if she didn’t want to alert the wrong people, she had to tread lightly. So Sakura kept her inquiries very basic, though the execution of said inquiries was anything but. The sheer amount of variations she had to compose of the question, “Someone-in-a-position-of-authority sent me to find this girl, can you help me?”, bordered on ridiculous, and the repetitious nature of it all was nearly enough to make her scream.

But worse than any of that was the fact that all Sakura had received for her efforts thus far was a somewhat-hazy idea of what the woman looked like. Apparently, Ino was a young woman of above-average beauty, with blonde hair, a haughty demeanor, and blue, calculating eyes. But since Sakura had yet to catch a glimpse of anyone that fit the description, whether within the castle or without, the knowledge was of little to no consequence. 

Frankly, the wild goose chase was starting to piss her off.

After several hours, and nothing to show for it, Sakura’s search got cut short and her day went from bad to worse. Karin was unsatisfied with the quality of one of Sakura’s jobs _–_ there were wrinkles in the drapes; simply unacceptable for a room that the King may deign to walk into – and decided it was time to dole out some proper punishment, making an example of the ‘new girl’ for all to see. 

With a smug grin, the housekeeping head loudly informed everyone that Sakura was now the sole person responsible for renovating the old meat cellar and, to a chorus of horrified gasps, sent her promptly on her way. So for the remainder of her shift, plus several more hours of overtime and a missed meal, Sakura was stuck in that dirty and dank place, which still smelled strongly of rotting flesh, to clean and prep it for future use. When she was finally – _finally_! – finished, Sakura felt dirtier than she had in her entire life, including the past few months that she had spent living on the street, and so she dragged herself straight to the bathhouse, foregoing dinner.

As she lingered in the servant’s bath, futilely trying to scrub the rank smell from her skin, the need to cause bodily harm to Karin’s haughty face burned even brighter in Sakura’s heart. It would be so easy. She knew exactly where the evil woman’s quarters were and Sakura was quite skilled in lock picking. She could be in and out, striking Karin with enough force to knock her out, without even raising the alarm. Of course, come morning her transgression would be out in the open and there would be consequences to bear. So once again, she dutifully ignored the impulse in favor of her mission and, since the kitchen was now closed for the night, simply returned to her room.

But when she arrived, there was something off about the surroundings, something different. Sakura couldn’t put her finger on it, the incongruity, and it set all her nerves on end, wondering if perhaps someone had seen through her pretense and was waiting for her just inside. The young woman put her back to the door, making her profile as small as possible, and inched the door open. It wasn’t necessarily the wisest of decisions – she had no weapon and anyone who might in there would have the element of surprise working in their favor – but she couldn’t stay in the hallway all night. Her breath stilled in her chest as she peered into the darkness. There was nothing there, at least nothing that her sight immediately registered. She opened the door farther and still nothing happened. 

No enemies jumping out to ambush her. 

No angry bosses chastising her. 

Not even the sound of a scurrying rodent. 

Absolutely nothing but the delicious smell of freshly baked bread.

Satisfied that no one was currently in her quarters and that it was safe, Sakura finally walked in, carefully shutting the door and locking it behind her. After lighting a candle, she flopped down on her bed with a deep sigh. Weariness crept in as the adrenaline subsided, her bones suddenly as heavy as lead, and it took the last of her strength to roll onto her side so that she could inspect the new addition to the room. On the small side table to the right of the headboard was a covered plate and a hastily written letter, neither of which had been there when she’d left this morning. With a lazy hand, Sakura picked up the paper.

_New girl,_

_Noticed you missed dinner._

_Word is that it was because of that spectacled bitch._

_Well, any enemy of Karin’s is a friend of mine._

_Enjoy,_

_Suigetsu_

_PS – Ino’s normally running around in the royal wing._

_If you see her, tell her I’m tired of baking all these damn sesame cakes for her._

Curiosity brought her a fresh wave of energy, and Sakura sat up. Under the cloth napkin was a simple, yet hearty feast – still-warm bread, cheese, and a large bunch of red grapes. Sakura was quick to note that there was not a piece of meat to be seen anywhere on the platter.

The chef, for all his many rough edges, was truly a wonderful man.

**{ oOo }**

On the fourth day, inspired by her late-night correspondence, Sakura decided a change of tact was in order. Rather than expending the energy to find Ino, Sakura began to stakeout the Concubine’s personal quarters. It wasn’t the easiest of propositions, not when she still had actual work to do and an over-inflated bully of a boss to avoid, but she did her best. She took every opportunity presented to be nearby – requested jobs that were in the area, walked the long way around the castle because she ‘needed to stretch her legs’, and spent her few short breaks patrolling the connecting corridor, doing her best to have her presence appear to be casual or coincidental when others passed by her. 

But still, Sakura had no luck.

Her frustrated anger of the previous day began to wane, shifting into something that closely resembled panic. Itachi had given her a strict deadline to adhere to this time, and the consequences of any failure on her part would be directed at Chiyo. Sakura couldn’t let that happen. The old bat was tough and tenacious to be sure, having lived in the harsh climes of Suna for most of her long life, but the Puppet Master had a way of breaking people down and hollowing them out. 

Sakura had been the nursemaid of one of his victims once, back when she was still considered respectable and therefore eligible for an occupation of skill; now, being a young woman without parents or a husband, she was neither in the eyes of most. She had first-hand knowledge of how Sasori of the Akasuna tribe had received his chilling moniker. The ways in which he tortured his victims, how he pulled their strings, left them empty, their minds broken and gone and never to return. Even Chiyo – her strong, infuriatingly stubborn Granny Chiyo – would not be able to remain intact under his care.

Sakura was running out of time.

By the time her shift ended, without any new leads or sight of the ever-elusive Ino, Sakura was at her wit’s end and running headlong into being completely distraught. There was nothing else for her to do, no other avenues for her to explore, and though she was sure that something – some clue or a chance run-in with the right person – would come her way eventually, in this case ‘eventually’ just wasn’t good enough. And again, it all came back to a lack of time. 

Against all her better instincts, she made her way back to the Concubine’s room, fully intent on throwing her established plan to the wayside. She was going to enter that room and see what she was up against, consequences be damned. So what if the Songbird sang its tune? That whole bit about it stopping a person’s heart was probably just a rumor anyway, some random twisting of an old fairy tale that was told merely to add mystique to the Concubine’s story.

 _That, or Itachi’s playing games with my head_ , she considered with a brief flash of ire. _Time to find out._

Sakura stepped forward, glancing both directions down the hallway to check for any unwanted observers, and when she didn’t see anyone, she reached out her hand. As her fingers wrapped around the cold brass knob, they began to shake. For all her bravado, Sakura was nervous, if not a little scared. But she pushed on – past her trembling extremities and shallow breaths and thrumming heartbeat – and slowly turned the handle, only to have the door slammed into her face. It dazed her for a moment, though not because of the force of the blow; sure, it stung, but it was nothing compared to the knock Kisame had given her. The real shock came because the occurrence had taken Sakura completely off-guard. She hadn’t thought to check if anyone was in the room before making her move, something that could have been easily ascertained by putting her ear to the door and listening for a few moments, and now she was reaping the consequences.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” a feminine voice groused, pulling Sakura out of her stupor. “Just look at this mess you made!”

Kneeling on the ground was a young woman, her blonde hair pulled up into a high, elegant ponytail. Her robes were the same blue as Sakura’s uniform, identifying her as a servant of the royal house, but the fabric and cut were of a much superior quality. Scattered across the floor were the broken pieces of a small earthenware bowl, along with its contents – a mostly eaten slice of cake – and the woman busied herself with picking up the debris and wrapping it up in her handkerchief. After a long moment of awkward silence, the woman scowled and turned her blue eyes on Sakura.

“Well?” she huffed, with a flip of her long hair. “Aren’t you going to help me? This is all your fault, you know.”

“Of course,” Sakura replied as she dropped to her knees, pulling out her own handkerchief. “I apologize. I was just dazed there for a moment. The door hit me in the forehead.”

The other woman gave her a once over, before returning her gaze to Sakura’s head, and then giggled. “It _is_ kind of hard to miss, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” Sakura bit out. Her large forehead always made her self-conscious and having a stranger comment on it didn’t help matters. But she swallowed down her irritation and took advantage of the opportunity that had presented itself. It looked as if she’d found her target; all that was left was to receive the confirmation. “Look, I really am sorry for the mess. The name’s Sakura, by the way.”

The blonde pointed to herself. “Ino. Nice to meet you.” 

_Yes!_ Sakura cheered inwardly. _It’s about damn time._

“Oh, I know who you are!” Ino continued and her face turned wicked, a small smile curling her lips. “You’re the new girl, aren’t you? Karin really, _really_ hates you.”

“So I’ve noticed,” Sakura dryly remarked, using a sarcastic roll of her eyes to distract from her discomfort. For a moment, Ino’s exclamation had made her worry, thinking that her true purpose in the castle had been discovered. Of course, it was just her recently gained notoriety that the blonde was referring to, something Sakura should have realized straight off. Sakura fought hard to hold in an unhappy sigh. Really, there had to be something wrong with her if it was a relief to hear that someone, especially someone in authority over her, hated her.

“Don’t take it too personally. She’s just a jealous bitch.” Ino stood up, holding tight to her now-full handkerchief, and started walking in the direction of the kitchen. Sakura also stood, trailing just behind Ino as she spoke. “She’s got this obsessive crush on the King. When she hired on here, she thought that she was being taken in as part of the harem. But apparently, she didn’t meet the King’s high standards. When Karin found out that she was going to be making the King’s bed, rather than bedding him, she kind of snapped. That’s how the rumors go anyway. Heaven knows if they’re actually true. What I do know is that she likes to pick on the pretty ones. It’s a bit of a backhanded compliment, I suppose.”

“I heard pretty much the same story. My ego might gain some satisfaction from that,” – Sakura groaned, rolling her shoulders – “if my body wasn’t so sore from the hell she’s been putting me through.”

“You should get some rest. I’m sure Karin has some perfectly lovely things planned for you for tomorrow,” Ino teased, her free hand clutched tight to her chest as she waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Sakura groaned again. “Oh joy.” 

Both women paused their conversation, having come to a crossroad of sorts. To the left was the hallway that led to the servant’s living quarters, and to the right, the kitchen. Sakura motioned over her shoulder, throwing her thumb roughly in the direction of her room. Ino nodded and pointed at the opposite corridor. 

“Well,” Sakura said, breaking up the awkward silence, “I guess this is goodnight.”

“Yep. Goodnight, Forehead.”

And with that, they each began to walk away. 

Sakura moved just a few steps before she turned and called out, “Hey, Ino? Do you think maybe we could talk again? It’s just…” She put her head down, affecting an air of shy embarrassment. “I haven’t really made any friends here yet. I mean, I understand if you don’t want to, especially after all the trouble I caused y–”

“Oh, just shut up,” Ino interrupted. Her hands were on her hips, the cloth holding the broken bowl dangling from one fist, and her nose was lifted high in the air. But even though the woman’s demeanor screamed with exasperation, she was smiling widely. “I’m in room 10A. I’m out a lot – so many guys, so little time, and all that – but if I’m home, you’re welcome to join me.” 

“Thanks,” Sakura said, returning the woman’s smile. Then, with an air of impressively natural alarm, she covered her mouth. Speaking through her fingers, Sakura exclaimed, “Crap, I almost forgot! I have a message for you!”

Ino crossed her arms, doubt flickering through her bright eyes. “Seriously? We just met.” 

“I _may_ have been asking around for you.” Sakura took a deep breath, letting it out in tiny increments. This turn in their discourse was a dangerous one. She had to play it right – just enough truth thrown in with the deception to be believable, yet not enough to make the woman suspicious – or her whole mission could be shot to hell. “I’m sorry. That came out really creepy. I just meant– I was curious about the King’s concubine, okay? I knew there was no way I’d ever get close enough to see her or talk to her or anything. But I thought maybe if I ran into you, you might have some good stories to tell about her?”

“Yeah, you and everybody else. Hell, that’s nothing new.” The blonde shrugged. “So? What was it?” When Sakura appeared to be confused, Ino tapped her foot impatiently. “You know, the message?”

“Oh! Suigetsu said,” Sakura spat out quickly, “and I quote, _Tell Ino I’m tired of baking all these damn sesame cakes_. Whatever the hell that means.”

“That silly, stupid man.” Ino laughed aloud, her voice tinkling with merriment. “If you see him before I do, you can tell I said that he won’t get any more _favors_ from me if he chooses to have that attitude. Besides, it’s not my fault Lady Eika insists upon spoiling that silly bird.”

“I don’t understand,” Sakura said, frowning.

“The sesame cakes are for the Concubine’s pet.” Ino enunciated her sentence slowly and carefully as if she were speaking to a child, and then she sighed. “I don’t understand it myself, really. She made me take this weird vow that every time I entered her quarters, the first thing I would do was feed her bird a sesame cake. She wouldn’t approve my appointment as her servant until I promised to do so. Royals.” Ino shook her pretty head. “Anyway, I’ve got to get going. Got a date with a soldier tonight, a regimental captain, and he’s positively yummy. So, I guess I’ll see you around? We can trade some stories – you about Karin’s ridiculous antics and me about the secret goings-on of the royal family. Deal?”

“I’d like that. But, umm,” – Sakura wrung her hands, continuing with her self-conscious-yet-curious act – “can I ask one more question? Before you go?”

“Shoot.”

“Is the Concubine… Lady Eika, I mean– Is she really as beautiful as they say?”

“Even more so. Hell, I’d stab someone to have her hair, all sleek and long and silver. It’s like damn starlight or something.” Ino sighed. “You’ll know what I mean when you finally get a chance to see her.”

“Yeah, I guess. And thanks.”

“No problem. See you around, Forehead.”

Sakura watched Ino disappear around the corner before pumping her fist into the air, relief and excitement roaring through her veins. Ino had been a veritable gold mine of information. And with what she gleaned from their conversation, Sakura could move on to the third and final phase of her plan.

Tomorrow night, Sakura was going to steal the Uchiha clan’s most prized possession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This snippet, like all future additions to this collection, is adoptable, no questions asked
> 
> It is my gift to the KS community, and as such, anyone (and everyone) is free to use it and expound on it along as I (kanames_harisen) am credited for the portion I created


	6. hypocritical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Fandom:** Naruto  
>  **Pairing:** Sakura/Sai  
>  **Word Count:** 2931  
>  **Rating:** T  
>  **Genre:** canon-divergence!AU, friendship, romance  
>  **Warnings:** canon-typical violence  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, what do I even say about this piece? It's so old - _my timestamp from my FF.net import says 2012_ \- and I don't remember much about it. I almost left it out of this collection after cringing my way through a re-read of the first paragraph. Then, I made myself reframe the narrative. 
> 
> This piece needs to be here; it shows how far I've come as a writer. 
> 
> Don't let anyone tell you that fanfic is a waste of time. Just look at this piece compared to my recent projects! I'm living proof that fanfic is every bit as valid for honing your craft as traditional written media

Pain.

The dull throb of injury greeted Sai as his consciousness reluctantly returned to him. This particular circumstance perplexed him greatly. Had he not been merely put to sleep? Sakura's loyalty was steadfast and her medical skills knew no equal but that of their esteemed Hokage, of this much he was certain. Therefore, the probability that this harm was inflicted by her drug, hastily administered though it was, seemed highly unlikely. No, this feeling was not akin to that of being poisoned. Nor did it seem to come from any external wound; a quick scan of his person negated that possibility. Yet, it was still very clear to him that all was not right or as it should be. His throat felt unbelievably tight, the sensation bringing to mind scenes of Naruto shoving complete bowls of ramen down his throat in a singular motion. Sai's heart raced uncontrollably, palpitating to a foreign rhythm, and his insides quaked. There was something wrong with him internally.

Nearby, his companions began to stir. As they also scanned for injuries, all the while cursing Sakura for her heroic stupidity, it became clear to Sai that he alone suffered from any malady. He rose gingerly, taken aback by how easily he could still function in spite of all his present symptoms, and questioned Kiba for his teammate's last known trajectory. The best course of action, for now, would be to find Sakura before his symptoms got worse. With but a nod, he left his temporary workmates and headed out in search of the pink-haired kunoichi.

Sai dashed through the woodland at breakneck speed, something as of yet unnamed urging him on. Something about the whole situation unsettled him. He should have anticipated Sakura's actions and been ready with a countermeasure. Becoming her victim was irresponsible and now his comrade could be engaged in a treacherous encounter with that traitor, possibly without backup; whether or not Kakashi had caught up to her in time remained to be seen. Her tenacity, even with her insane strength, would be no match for the Uchiha prodigy. It was as clear as needing air to breathe. Surely Sakura herself could see that. She had proven time and time again over that her intelligence was more than adequate. Why then would she willingly engage in actions where death was not only possible but the most probable outcome? The shinobi's stomach lurched, forcing him to stall his forward progress in favor of retching in the forest undergrowth. He had no time to waste now, his symptoms now progressing.

Another half-hour of hurdling over branches did little to ease his discomfort. A cold sweat, unrelated to his current exertions, came over Sai making his hands unnaturally clammy. Barely perceptible, yet uncontrollable shaking started to take a hold of him. His body was starting to go into shock. He would need to find her soon.

Sai lost all track of the distance he had traveled, the trees and thickets becoming but a verdant blur in the peripheral. It was of no consequence anyway. His mind was too clouded to focus on those kinds of details anymore. Instead he focused what was left of his cerebral capacity on what he considered to be his mission objectives: to find and determine the condition of one Sakura Haruno, and to have her administer a thorough health examination on his person. As Sai mentally rallied around these precepts, her chakra signature finally came into range. The worn shinobi redoubled his efforts. His reward finally came into view, accompanied by silver and gold and black, and Sai dropped from the sky with a resounding thud.

"Took you long enough to catch up." A weary, whiskered grin greeted him. "Sakura sure knows how to pack a punch, huh? And not just with her fist."

Sai merely nodded. His exertions had taken a toll on him and for the moment he was finding it hard to catch his breath. Non-verbal means of communication would have to do for the moment. And so his black eyes became intent on catching the attention of a pair of viridian ones. It did not take long.

"Sai? Are you okay?" Sakura gave her blonde teammate her half of their current burden, a half-dead kunoichi, and rushed over to Sai with healing chakra at the ready. "You look awful. My sleeping potion shouldn't have had any adverse effects. Were you attacked?"

The moment she touched his damp forehead, the symptoms began to ease. His heartbeat slowed to a near-normal pace and the tension in his muscles started to give way. "No. I... I don't..."

"I can't find anything wrong with you," the kunoichi replied after letting her chakra probe his entire form, puzzlement showing clearly on her face. "Talk to me, Sai. What's going on?"

"I woke up in pain, but I couldn't locate any wounds. It has to be something internal. I think my body started to go into shock. But..." Though his expression remained stoic, his eyes reflected confusion.

"But what?"

"I do not understand. You haven't treated me, but the symptoms are subsiding."

"Sakura," their tired sensei spoke up. "Check his tongue."

"Okay?" Sakura turned back to her patient. "You heard the man. Open up. Now, what am I looking for?"

"A seal. Danzo placed one on every member of Root. It was supposed to keep them quiet, but I have a feeling it sealed more than just their words."

"Are you sure, Sensei?" The pink head turned towards Kakashi for confirmation. "There's nothing here."

"The seal must have broken when Danzo died." The older man scratched his head. "Normally seals don't work like that. They stay in place even after the one who placed it there gets killed."

"I don't get it." Naruto chimed in. "Then why would Sai's seal be gone?"

"Well, his methods were questionable at best, but he was loyal to the village." Kakashi sighed. "My initial guess is that Sai has some information that Danzo thought may be of use to us in the event of his death. I doubt there's anything wrong with Sai. He's probably just feeling the after-effects of the seal being removed."

"I see. Then it could be possible..." She turned back to Sai, a sudden realization dawning in her eyes. "What were your symptoms? I need all of them in the order in which they appeared."

"Constricted airway, heart palpitations, a dull ache in my abdomen, nausea, shaking and cold sweats."

"Okay. You probably felt your throat, heart, and stomach first, right?" The girl tapped her cheek as she sorted out her theories.

"Yes."

"The nausea came later?" His nod confirmed some suspicions, so she continued with her line of questioning. "What were you doing when it came? Were you thinking about something?"

"I left the others to resume my mission. I..." The words left his mouth slowly, reluctant to be heard. "I was thinking that only a stupid kunoichi would drug her teammates so she could run into a suicide mission alone."

"Sai." His name fell softly from her lips and his eyes became glassy. Her lithe arms lifted to embrace his neck. "I'm sorry I worried you."

The warmth of her body against his was strangely comforting, so Sai chose to mimic her posture. "Did he hurt you?"

"Yes." The word came out as a sob and Sakura squeezed him just a bit tighter. "But I'll be okay."

"Good." Sai closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then detached himself from Sakura. "An injured medic is of no use to her team."

"You stupid..." Sakura paused mid-punch. The faint track of a fallen tear graced his tactless cheek. Breaking his face no longer held any appeal, so she contented herself with a measured thump to his shoulder. "Whatever. Let's just get home."

**Chapter 2: reclamation**

Running without sparing the slightest moment to turn back, determination and desperation lent their power to her limp limbs. In a maze of ever-growing darkness, she wandered. Alone. The silence filled her soul with dread, its death toll ringing in her ears. How long had she been running, been searching? It felt like countless fathoms of time with the quiet, suffocating loneliness contorting her senses. But onwards she ran just the same, hoping beyond all hope that something, anything would change this state of purgatory in which she found herself. Just what had she been searching for? It had been so long, even she forgot. All that was left was to go on. And though she knew to do so bordered heavily on the side of insanity, on she went. And on. And on. Always running. Always moving forward. She was hurtling herself headlong into her destiny and the outcome, she remembered only as it became too late, was always the same. The electric blade, crackling with some emotion between love and hate, ravaged the recess that once held her heart and ended her struggle. She was caught in the red.

Sakura awoke in a cold sweat, gasping for breath. Her hands came to her chest of their own accord, trying in vain to cover the ache of betrayal that now resided there. It was becoming a morning ritual. It took but a moment to collect her faculties, the shock value of such torturous nightmares dulling with each successive night that they had been endured. It had been ten days since her brush with death at the hands of her most beloved and Sakura was no shrieking violet.

The first night had been the worst. In her panic, she had roused the rest of the team and their prisoner with her struggling. When the spell of the nightmare finally broke, thanks to a sound slap from their venerable sensei, Sakura whispered her fake assurances and rearranged her bedroll. She could feel the knowing eyes of the scarlet prisoner on her for the rest of the night. Contempt for her own weakness, rather than that of his discarded pawn, ran through Sakura's veins under the scrutiny of that gaze. Sleep would continue to elude her.

The next few days were but a blur. Arriving at the village, handing in mission reports, and reporting for duty at the hospital were second nature enough that she could perform these tasks on autopilot. She had joined the ranks of the walking dead. It took a couple of days, but eventually, her friends staged an intervention. It took another bit of friendly violence, this time supplied by an indignant Ino, to set her straight, but it was effective. She went to plotting. After all, one should play to one's strengths and Sakura had always been known to have an intelligent head on her shoulders.

It took a couple more days for her to realize that there were holes, numerous and large ones, in the scheme she was cooking up. Like it or not, Sakura was going to have to call in some back-up. Invitations went out and she lost no time in starting preparations. Time would be of utmost importance; some of the major players could not be counted upon to stay in the village for any length of time.

One by one they arrived, exchanging smiles and civilities before being seated at the kunoichi's small dining table. Sakura did a fair job of hostess duties, pouring tea and filling plates with second and third portions, in between fielding off-color comments between the two younger males attending. When the eating and drinking and carousing seemed to slow, she smiled and began clearing the used dishes.

"It was a pleasant meal, Sakura." The silver-haired shinobi seated at the head of the gathering handed over his empty plate. "But what are we really here for?"

"Observant as always, sensei." The girl added his plate to the pile growing near the sink. "I think it's time we discussed what should be done about Sasuke."

"Sakura." Her name came across Naruto's lips as an impatient growl. "There is nothing to discuss. I already promised you that I would bring him home to you. I don't go back on my promises."

"I'm not asking you to. I'm just asking how we intend on doing it." Sakura spoke carefully, making eye contact with all there as she did so.

"We?" The blonde stood up, knocking the chair out from under him as he did so. "Oh no! I don't think so. You're not going anywhere near him again! It's my responsibility. I'll bring him home."

"We've already discussed this." A sigh came from the direction of their sensei. "Sasuke is my responsibility. He was placed in my care."

"No, sensei. It's me he wants and I'm..."

The table between them splintered, a feminine fist having smashed through it in frustration. "Shut up both of you!" The furious kunoichi bit out. "Have you forgotten what happened the last time one of us tried to take him on by ourselves? Huh?  _ Huh _ ?" Sakura paused to look at them. "Well, I do. I see it every single freakin' night in my nightmares. He was going to kill me. And he was going to enjoy it. Now when I say 'we' that's exactly what I mean. So  _ we _ had better start coming up with a plan so  _ we _ can deal with this once and for all the next time we see that traitorous bastard. Understand?"

"Fine. I get it." Naruto gave his sulky consent.

"You know he's not going to come quietly." The reminder came from Kakashi. "It will be easier to kill him than to capture him."

"But Kakashi-sensei!"

"I know, Naruto, but he might not give us a choice."

"It's fine," Sakura spoke up. "If we have to kill him, it's fine. There's nothing left of our Sasuke in there anyway."

"Sakura?"

"Come on, Naruto. We're deluding ourselves if we think that we'll bring him back and everything will be just fine. He wants to destroy the village and everyone it! If we don't do it, the powers that be will just execute him. If he has to die, I'd rather it be by our hands in the manner we think is best. I only see three choices. We kill him, they kill him or he kills all of us. And if I have to pick one, I pick the one where we get to have the most say." For the first time in days, Sakura gave in to the desire to break down.

"No." A soft, monotone voice cut through the discussion. Three sets of eyes turned his direction in wonder. "You are wrong, hag. There are four choices."

Sakura wiped her wet face with the back of her hands. "Sai, I don't understand. What other choice? Do you actually want to try to save him? Is that the choice you're talking about? Why would you? He's nothing to you."

"Please do not misunderstand me. This is not out of compassion. It is just the opposite actually."

"Yeah, I don't get it either." Naruto scratched his cheek in puzzlement.

"He has rejected the bonds he created with all of you. He has caused you pain. Even now, he makes the hag cry." Sai paused to rub his chest. "He does not deserve death. That is too light a punishment for his transgressions."

"What do you suggest?" Kakashi leaned forward, resting his elbows on what was left of Sakura's table.

"There are things worse than death and we will give those things to Sasuke." The smirk he gave them instead of his usual smile seemed genuine, laced with just a bit of malice. "I have a plan."

The rest of Team Kakashi eyed each other, looking for the unspoken cues as to what each was thinking. Each saw what they felt mirrored back at them, but no one wanted to speak up. No one wanted to be the one to confirm their resolve to do whatever it takes. They were about to change the rules. Sakura would regain her heart by first breaking it. Naruto would leave his childhood behind once and for all. Kakashi would learn to put the needs of the many above his own selfish wishes. They would do what their mentors could not. They would be the ones to break the cycle. They would rain retribution upon one of their own.

"Fine. But if we're going to talk nefarious plans, let's take it to the sofa. I'd rather not get splinters." The kunoichi glanced back at the other half of her team. "Oh, and you two owe me a new table."

"But Sakura..."

"Of course. It's no problem." Kakashi covered the blonde's mouth with a firm hand until the girl turned away. "Don't worry, Naruto. Yamato owes me."

"I can hear you guys, you know."

Darkness invaded her dreams once again. She was running, always running. Desperate and determined. Always moving on. Always moving forward. Again, not a person was in sight, but she did not feel alone. The inky air that enveloped her did not frighten her anymore. It felt... alive. She felt the familiar burn of her overexerted muscles. She knew where she was going. She was meeting her destiny. It was unavoidable. She could hear the lightning closing in, causing the hair on her neck to stand on end. But this time as her destiny hit critical mass, the collision with her heart imminent, the crackle of the electric blade was drowned out by a soft trickling of black liquid. The sound grew and grew until it became palpable, swallowing the chidori in its entirety. The red receded and refused to return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This snippet, like all future additions to this collection, is adoptable, no questions asked
> 
> It is my gift to the SaiSaku community, and as such, anyone (and everyone) is free to use it and expound on it along as I (kanames_harisen) am credited for the portion I created


	7. valleys of the charmed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Fandom:** Harry Potter  
>  **Pairing:** Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy  
>  **Word Count:** 5686  
>  **Rating:** M  
>  **Genre:** Hurt/Comfort, Drama, Romance, Mystery  
>  **Warnings:** secondary character death (off-screen)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This piece was intended to be a follow-up to my first dramione fest piece, _Bag of Bones_ , but I never got around to finishing it. I was neck-deep in watching BBC's Merlin at the time, so of course, the plot involved a twist on Merlin and Morgana's stories. Throw in a curse that works as a catalyst for both destiny and huddling for warmth, and you'd have a general idea of where I was going with this one.

**[ Prologue ]**

**Scotland, 545 A.D.**

_ “Come to finish me off, then, have you?” her voice called out. She had meant to be defiant, challenging, but the toll of her circumstances had finally sunk down deep; the question rang with resignation instead. _

_ “No milady,” he answered - quickly, calmly – and the woods around went strangely still, as if even the trees were waiting to hear his judgment. “I know the treachery of magic better than any other. You are not to blame. It was the work of the fates.” _

_“And I know my deeds, wizard. Though this curse was inflicted by one without the right to do so, it was a just punishment. I could not resist the compulsion of the spell.” The lady paused, bowing her head. When she raised it again,_ _her face was drawn tight in anguish and her lips were firmly set in acceptance_ _. “I betrayed my beloved. There is no crime worse than that.”_

_ “Ah, but there is and it was the one committed against you.” She turned away from him, unable to accept the truth in his words, but he continued on, moving around so that he remained in her line of sight. “It was because of this that I tracked you down. I will not leave you to this cruelty, not while I have some comfort to offer.” _

_ “The curse? Can you-“ _

_ “No,” he shook his head, regret tainting the kindness in his warm eyes. “It is stronger than even my magic. I can offer a spell - a set of charms, in fact - which will counter some of its more deplorable effects. But in exchange, the fates will ask more of you. You will be charged with a task, one that will take place in the future, but I am not at liberty to divulge more than that. What say you, milady?” _

_ “Would you take this offer?” she asked, wide eyes searching his own. “If you were in my position?” _

_ The man gently wrapped a hand over her shoulder and did not recoil in spite of the deep chill that permeated her being. “Without a doubt, yes.” _

_ “Then let it be as you say.” The woman straightened her spine, her bearing regal. “Start the incantation, when you are ready.” _

**[ part two ]**

**Scotland, 545 A.D.**

_ The mage worked his way deeper into the forest, through thick underbrush and the dense lines of trees, as she followed closely behind him. The vegetation was wild and unyielding and in places, it was difficult to even find a foothold. That did not concern the woman who followed him for she’d traversed over many a difficult terrain when she was younger.  _ _ There was something more at work here than the hostile terrain. The atmosphere was heavy and she had trouble drawing breath. It was as if the elements conspired against them to impede them from reaching their destination. _

_ They had walked for hours and not a word had passed between them. “Wizard, how much further do we go?” she finally demanded, weary to her bones. _

_ “Please stay strong, milady,” he spoke gently. Then he took her hand, leading her on. “We must find a proper place – a secret, hidden place – before we can begin. You will be waiting for a long time and I do not want you to be disturbed. There is a small cave just to the north of us that I am certain will serve our purposes well.” _

_ She nodded and then they were moving forward again. _

_ The sun had nearly set by the time they reached their destination, the sky painted a blazing orange with pink and purple accents. Inside, the cave was a small, bare space with little more than stones for company and comfort. The man grinned widely as if he could read her thoughts. He waved a hand over the rocks and they transformed into a bed-like platform. Then he removed his outer cloak and repeated the action over the fabric. This time a pillow appeared in his grasp. _

_ “I’m sorry it’s not much,” he said apologetically. _

_ “No, no, it’s enough,” she assured him. Tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. His act of kindness, small as it was, touched her heart. This man had every reason to hate her. He was her beloved’s most loyal servant and friend. After what she’d done, he should be cursing her like the rest. “Thank you.” _

_ “You’re welcome. If you would please…” He motioned towards the platform. _

_ “Oh yes, of course.” _

_ The woman obeyed his request and settled herself as well as she could. The bed was cold and hard, but the pillow was soft and supportive. She found the contrast fitting; her body had sinned, but her mind had not. _

_ “I am ready to begin,” he informed her. “I will cast a Concealment Charm upon the mouth of the cave. No one, with the exception of me, will be able to see it or enter through it. It will make sure that you are not awoken before the appointed time.” _

_ “Awoken?” she interrupted, desperate for clarification. “Will I… will I truly be able to sleep? A dreamless sleep?” _

_ “Yes, milady. My final incantation will allow you to sleep in spite of the curse upon you.” He turned his head to the side, his dark hair falling across his brow, and he closed his eyes. But her quick sight caught the sadness in them anyway. “You will be alone for many centuries before the fates come for you. I would not have you bear that burden.” The man swiped the back of his hand across his cheeks, then turned back to her. “When you wake up, it will be time for you to start your task.” _ **  
**

**[ oOo ]** **  
**

**Hogwarts, September 3, 2003**

“Alright, please take your seats,” Hermione called out over the bustle of her rapidly filling classroom. There were a few more seconds of chaos, the shifting of bags and the territorial scrambling for desks, as the students worked to comply with her request. Finally, when all eyes were ready and trained on her, the teacher continued. “I am Professor Granger. Welcome to Defence Against Dark Arts.”

She pulled her wand from her pocket, swift in a way that only experience can teach a person, and firmly spoke an incantation. Silver-white mist curled around her before coalescing into the distinct form of her Patronus. The otter flitted about the room,  playfully tumbling and rolling in the air before it streaked towards Hermione and cuddled up to her. She stroked its head once and it disappeared.

“Good, I have your attention,” Hermione smirked, pleased by the open-mouthed expressions on most of her pupils. “As fifth-years, this is the last time you will be required to take this class and we will have a wide range of material to cover this year. 

“You will notice that the desks are set up in pairs. Please choose your seats wisely. We have dueling as part of the curriculum this year and the person you sit next to will be your dueling partner for the entire term. I will be taking note of the seating arrangement at the start of our next class period. Since there is an odd number of you, I will be paired with the person without a partner during our dueling exercises.

“All assignments must be turned in on the day that they are due, no exceptions. I will expect you to arrive to class on time and prepared with all the necessary materials.” 

Grabbing a piece of chalk, Hermione turned away from the class and began writing a list on the blackboard. “You will need the following items in every class unless I inform you otherwise: your wand, a quill with ink, parchment, and your ‘ _ Essential Defence Against the Dark Arts’  _ textbook. We will be using the other two manuals later in the year, so for now you are not required to carry them.” She spun around and dusted off her hands. “Any questions?”

“Professor?” A hand half rose in the front row. The boy connected to it cleared his throat timidly as he looked down at the syllabus the school had provided. “Will we really be studying from ‘ _ Confronting the Faceless’ _ ?”

“It will be the last of the material that we cover, but yes, we will.”

“B-But,” he stuttered, his blue eyes round, “that’s a N.E.W.T. level textbook.”

“Your name, please?”

“Fawley, ma’am.”

Hermione smiled warmly at the young man. “They have set the bar high this year, Mr. Fawley. I know that I will be asking a lot from you this year, but I have faith that you will be more than able to meet my expectations. It’s a hard world out there, class, and it’s my job to prepare you for it.

“Now please take out your quills,” she waved her wand and a parchment appeared on every student’s desk, “we will be taking a test.” A chorus of groans and complaints went up around the room and she was forced to raise her voice. “Consider it to be a survey, if you like. I want to know the extent of your knowledge so that I can streamline my teaching to cover any gaps in it. Just answer each question to the best of your ability. The results of this test will not be counted towards your grade. You have twenty minutes starting…” Hermione pointed her wand at the clock. With a flick of her wrist, the hands and numbers rearranged themselves and became a timer. “ _ Now _ .”

The minutes passed by quickly, the melody of crinkling paper and scratching ink a soothing sound to her ears. She occupied herself with some light reading – a tome discussing theories about the roots of the Arthurian legend and their connection to the real Merlin – until the alarm sounded. 

“Time’s up. Pass your tests forward. Those of you in the front row can bring them up to me.” When all the tests had been gathered and everyone was back in their seats, Hermione continued. “Please open your books to the first chapter. Today we will be discussing Red Caps.”

Over the sound of flipping pages, Hermione could hear giggling from the back of the classroom. 

In the last row, a Slytherin girl sat by herself, frantically rummaging through her bag. In front of her and one grouping to the left sat a pair of Gryffindor students, a boy and a girl. The girl had her arms crossed over her chest and her lips were set smugly, self-satisfied. The boy’s mouth was parted slightly and he looked very shocked about something. His blue eyes darted back and forth between the girl next to him and the one behind. Several of the other pairs, also from Gryffindor, attempted to hide their amusement.

“Is there a problem?” Hermione asked. 

“I’m sorry, Professor,” the agitated Slytherin spoke as she stood up. The girl’s green eyes shifted to her shoes and her fingers tightened into fists. Dejected, she hung her head and her long black hair moved to surround her face. She hid behind it as best she could, as if she were ashamed of being put on the spot. She spoke again, her voice shaking through her grit teeth, and Hermione could recognize the anger in it. “I seem to have misplaced my book.”

Giggling broke out again and Hermione pursed her lips. “What is your name?”

The girl blanched but answered quietly. “Amelia Wright, ma’am.”

“It’s alright, Amelia. You can sit down now.” The professor turned her attention to the nearby Gryffindor pair. “And your names?”

The smug Gryffindor girl tossed her blonde curls and smiled brightly. “I’m Ellie Brooks.”

“Monroe Alton, Professor,” the young man whispered.

“I see,” Hermione said sternly. “Is there anything either of you would like to tell me?”

Monroe opened his mouth as if to speak, but Ellie elbowed him sharply. “Of course not,” she replied.

The fake sweetness of the girl’s voice set Hermione’s nerves on edge. Instinct told her that Ellie had something to do with the disappearance of Amelia’s book, but without a confession or a witness, there was little she could do about it.

“Mr. Alton, do you have your book?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Good. Please take your things and sit next to Miss Wright. The two of you can share a book until hers turns up.”

Ellie’s expression darkened considerably, her lips twisting into a scowl and her eyes shooting daggers as Monroe switched seats. Her reaction confirmed Hermione’s suspicions.

“And one more thing… Ten points from Gryffindor.” The professor paused after her declaration, waiting for the gasps and chattering to die down. “I will not allow amusement at another’s expense in my classroom.”

Later, when all the students had gone and the classroom was once again peaceful, Hermione flopped into her chair, burying her head in her hands.

This was not what she had fought a war for.

**[ oOo ]**

Hermione’s last class of the day wasn’t one of her own.

She arrived at the Muggle Studies classroom as the first of the students, third-year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, were starting to trickle in. Trying to be as unobtrusive as possible – she was only there to observe, after all – Hermione made her way to the desk in the farthest corner of the room, situated amongst the dust and cobwebs; either Malfoy hadn’t had time to properly clean, arriving at Hogwarts as late as he did, or he just didn’t care to. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. Her week had involved enough dirt already and it was barely Wednesday. Pulling out her wand, she discreetly cast a Cleaning Charm and was happy when it worked better than it had in her own classroom. Then she sat down and waited for class to start.

Draco sat behind his desk with his head bent forward. One of his thumbs absently traced the ridge of his eyebrow, over and over again, as he wrote in what appeared to be a Muggle notebook. His hand danced across the page with precise, efficient strokes. He was wholly concentrated on his task. His brow was furrowed, but his lips were relaxed, missing both the scowl and smirk she had come to associate with him over the years. While observing him, Hermione was surprised by a sudden urge to get up and inspect his penmanship. Inwardly she chastised herself for it, reminding her wayward mind of the reason she was there in the first place – to observe his teaching methods. But she had to admit, he had a certain… charisma when he wasn’t mouthing off. His features – white-blond hair, face pale and sharp, and steely eyes – were striking, if nothing else. The last of the students entered the room and Draco stopped, closing the cover of the book abruptly with a snap. The sudden action caused her to jump slightly as she was startled out of her thoughts.

Then he stood and faced the class as he rested casually against the front of his desk, twirling his writing instrument around and through his fingers. The movement brought her attention to his hand. She realized, with no small measure of surprise, that he had been writing with a cheap Muggle pen.

That was certainly not what Hermione had been expecting from Draco Malfoy, regardless of his time spent in London.

“Take your seats. Your  _ assigned  _ seats,” he said as he pointed to the chart that was written on the blackboard behind him. It was a simple statement, spoken in a cool and calm tone, and the class moved quickly to obey. All eyes were on the professor as he made his way to the bookshelf on the far side of the room. He retrieved a stack of notebooks and began to pass them out by hand, rather than using the Levitating Spell Hermione would have utilized. As he walked up and down the aisles, Draco explained. “Many of you have taken this class expecting it to be an easy grade. Well, it won’t be, so get that idea out of your heads now.

“The best way to understand Muggles and their way of life is to do things the way they do. That means there will be absolutely no magic used in this classroom, nor will its use be permitted on any assignments. The book I am handing out to you is the Muggle equivalent of a parchment scroll, called a ‘notebook’. You are required to bring it to every class. Don’t lose it because I will not be giving out replacements.”

Malfoy rounded the corner of the last row of desks, the row in which she was situated, and she felt his hand come to rest on the back of her seat. Hermione trained her stare on the front of the classroom, trying not to acknowledge his sudden proximity. She did not want to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. But she admitted if only to herself, that her pulse was much faster than she would have liked. It wasn’t like he had to know that though. And just when she felt it was enough, when she had a terse retort about ‘hovering’ prepared to be unleashed, something was dropped in front of her. The dull thud – she felt its vibrations through the wood, sending goosebumps up her forearms - brought her attention away from him and back to her desk. 

“Granger,” he spoke softly. 

At the sound of her name, Hermione looked up and braced herself for a confrontation. His grey eyes met hers for the briefest of seconds, but it was long enough. The same feeling, a strange reality flip, that she had felt on the night of the Sorting Ceremony washed over her. Then with a slight nod, he moved on and she released the breath that she had been holding.

Draco had given her a notebook as well.

As he continued on past her, Hermione leaned forward in her seat, fascinated, and wondered where the prejudiced little boy she knew had gone. She could see very little of what she had thought to be his character in the man in front of her. It was only in the physical aspects that he was familiar to her now. Her eyes followed him intently – puzzled and curious – as he finished his circuit around the room. When he was done with distributing the notebooks, Malfoy picked up two small, rectangular boxes from his desk and started around the room again.

“You won’t need your quills for this course, so don’t bother bringing them. Instead, you will use a ‘pen’,” he continued, holding up an item from one of the boxes. A couple of the students nodded their heads, grinning at the familiarity of the object, but most of the class wore expressions that ranged from awe to skepticism. “This is one of the many tools that Muggles use for writing. Like your notebook, you are required to have your pen in every class. Don’t lose it.”

This time, Malfoy gave the students sitting in the front row a handful of the pens and had them each take one and pass the rest back, instructing the others to repeat the action until the last person received theirs. Hermione was only mildly surprised to be counted among them; she received a pen.

“Open your notebooks. On the first page is a list of books that will be required reading for this course. I expect you to have them no later than the Wednesday after next. Since there is no Hogsmeade trip scheduled for this month, I suggest that you owl the list to your parents. If you foresee any problems–”

“Professor Malfoy?”

Draco crossed his arms over his chest. “Mr. Tate, if you wish to speak in my classroom, you must first raise your hand and wait to be called upon by me. Is that understood?” The young Hufflepuff nodded, cheeks red with embarrassment. “Good.” After a few beats of silence with the professor and the student in an awkward staring contest, Draco rubbed a hand over his face and exclaimed in frustration, “Merlin’s beard, I’ve acknowledged you already. Please continue with whatever it was that you were going to say.”

“Um, well. Sir, don’t we already have a textbook?”

“We do and it’s rubbish. The person who wrote it should be strung up by their toes,” Malfoy scoffed. “We will not be using that load of drivel.”

While the rest of the student’s mouths hung open in shock, one brave girl raised her hand high into the air.

“Yes, Miss Blake?”

“What are we supposed to do with them then, Professor?”

Draco smirked. “I don’t care what you do with them. Return them. Use them as a doorstop or kindling for your Common Room’s fireplace. Just don’t bring them in here. Are there any more questions?”

His inquiry was met with silence.

“Very well. Let’s go over what this year’s curriculum will cover.”

Hermione opened the cover of her notebook to begin taking notes, but paused, her hand still in mid-air, when she read the page. In a strong yet elegant script, two short sentences had been written.

_ Granger, _

_ Make this easy on both of us. _

_ Keep your bushy head down in my classroom. _

Hermione felt like she should have been offended by the note, but she wasn’t. She smiled.

For the first time since coming back into her life, Draco Malfoy had finally done something completely expected.

**[ oOo ]**

**Hogwarts, September 12, 2003**

Hermione was sitting at her desk, absorbed with grading the essays her fourth-years had turned in earlier in the day, when she heard a knock at her classroom door. “Come in,” she called out. The old hinges squeaked, letting her know that someone had entered, but she did not look up from the parchment she was currently going over. “Yes?”

“I just dropped by to check in with you to see how you liked being a Hogwarts Professor. But I see that you’re busy, I'm sure we can have our chat later on.”

“Neville,” Hermione greeted brightly. “Of course you’re welcome to visit me. Oh,” she stood and grabbed a chair from one of the desks, placing it next to her own, “here. You can sit here.”

“Thank you.” Neville grinned. “So how have your classes been going?”

“Well. They’ve been going really well. There has been some friction between the Slytherin and Gryffindor students, especially with the older  ones. You would think that with age comes maturity," she told him with a roll of her eyes. “But I suppose that’s nothing new, is it?” Hermione stopped and looked at him curiously. “You realize that you see me at every meal, right? You could have talked to me about this at dinner.”

“I know,” he chuckled. “But it’s not quite the same, not with Malfoy at the table now.”

“Oh, thank you for reminding me!” she exclaimed. “I nearly forgot that I have to go observe his Advanced Muggle Studies class next.”

Neville’s lips thinned and he dropped the smile that he’d been wearing. “Has he been giving you any trouble?”

“No,” Hermione assured, “nothing like that. It’s just, well, he’s Malfoy.”

“I suppose that’s enough.” He asserted with a smug air, in an imitation of the Muggle Studies Professor. At his poor yet recognizable attempt, Hermione gasped dramatically before breaking out into a wide grin. Then Neville broke character and laughed, full and rumbling, and it was impossible not to join him. 

“Thank you, I needed that,” she said once she could breathe. Then, looking at the time, Hermione groaned. “I’ve got to be off. If I’m late, I’m sure he’ll never let me hear the end of it.”

Neville walked with her to the hallway. “Good luck,” he said. He patted her shoulder and walked down the corridor in the opposite direction.

**[ oOo ]**

“What are the methods of transportation used by modern wizards here in Great Britain?” Professor Malfoy asked, chalk ready in hand. “Anyone?”

As Hermione opened her book to take notes, several hands went into the air. Draco began pointing to the students in turn, not bothering with verbal recognition, as he wrote their answers on the board.

“Apparition!”

“The Floo Network, sir.”

“Yes,” he concurred after watching most of the raised hands drop, “those are the two that are mainly used, but there are many more. Use your brains. What else?”

“By train. You know, like the Hogwarts Express.”

“Does the Knight Bus count?”

In the middle of the discussion, someone began murmuring in the center of the room. Draco moved away from the blackboard and abruptly stopped the lesson. “Is there a problem, Miss Brooks?”

Ellie smiled and flipped her hair off of her shoulder, but her eyes showed contempt for her teacher. “Yes, Professor, there is.”

“Then by all means,” Malfoy gestured to the rest of the room, a wide sweeping motion, and returned her glare, “please share with the class.” 

“I just don’t understand,” she spoke up challengingly. “Why are we discussing our society when we are supposed to be learning about Muggles?”

“Are you an expert in transportation?” he countered in cold, clipped syllables. 

“Well, no.” 

“Perhaps you have some sort of degree or certification that I have not been made aware of?”

Her smile fell. “No.”

“Surely you at least have your Licence to Apparate?”

“N-no, sir,” the girl faltered.

“Then can you please tell me why your opinion even matters?” He calmly waited for an answer, but Hermione could see the anger storming through his eyes. Ellie shook her head, not daring to speak up again. “Five points from Gryffindor,” he said simply. Then he moved on as if nothing had ever happened. “Now who can tell me another way modern wizards and witches travel?”

“Mum always uses Portkeys when she goes on holiday.”

“Flying Carpets, Professor.”

“Miss Wright, I’m fairly certain I asked for  _ modern _ modes of transportation.”

Hermione watched Amelia’s posture change – from confident and engaged to withdrawn – at Malfoy’s sharp words, and she could no longer keep quiet.

“Actually, Professor Mal–”

“Professor Granger,” he interrupted, “you are a guest in this classroom. As such, I must insist that you follow the same rules as the rest of the class.”

Anger coloured her face red in an instant and she had to suppress the urge to hex off his smirk, along with some of his other bits. She had assured the Headmistress that she could act maturely in front of the students and so she would. Instead of giving in to her baser instincts, Hermione narrowed her eyes and raised her hand.

“Professor,” Malfoy asked as his smirk widened, “you had something to add?”

“Yes, actually. Flying Carpets are indeed modern modes of transportation, still used with great frequency in Asia and parts of the Middle East.” She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms, daring him to contradict her.

“While that is correct, I did ask for modern transportation in  _ Great Britain _ ,” he volleyed back.

“True,” Hermione conceded, though the word was bitter on her tongue. “But the ban on Flying Carpets is a fairly recent development. One could argue that even though they are not in use today, they still qualify as ‘modern’.”

“Oh, one could. But for the sake of this class, that person would be wrong.” Malfoy crossed his arms, mirroring her position. “My definition is the only one that counts here and I choose to define it as ‘current’.”

“But there are efforts  _ currently  _ in the works to bring back the Flying Carpets. Legislation–”

“Please don’t tell me you’re talking about Ali Bashir and his feeble attempts to make money,” he snickered. “Honestly, Professor, you can do better than that.”

Hermione’s brain scrambled for a comeback, any small bit of information that she could use to gain the upper hand. But nothing came to mind, so she settled for steaming in silence.

Draco just watched her, obviously pleased about his triumph and her discomfort. When it was finally,  _ painfully _ , obvious that she had no more to say, he resumed his lesson.

And when the class was dismissed, Hermione stomped out of the room. 

She didn’t look back.

**[ oOo ]**

**Hogwarts, September 13, 2003**

_ “Get ready,” Ron yelled at her from the next room. “Hermione, you’re going to be late.” _

_ She was sitting at the bench in front of her dressing table, though her back was turned to the mirror. Irritated, Hermione yelled back at him. “Late for what?”  _

_ A second later, he was hopping over to her, trying to walk and put on a boot at the same time. She looked up at him, utterly mystified. _

_ Ron was dressed like some character from medieval times, sporting a tunic of finely crafted chainmail over a burgundy blouse and tan breeches. He sat down, pushing her farther over on the bench, and resumed the struggle with his tall leather boot. As he bent over, something clattered on the stone floor. _

_ Hermione reached around him to pick it up and was surprised to see that it was an ornate gold circle.  _

_ “Ron, what’s this?” she asked, still unable to make sense of what was going on. _

_ “That’s my crown, of course,” he replied like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Then he grabbed it from her hands and placed it on his head. “I’m the king, remember?” _

_ Hermione shook her head and her eyes began to sting then, the frustration and confusion boiling over. Ron must have noticed, though, because she was soon wrapped in his strong arms. He smoothed down her hair, letting his fingers linger in the frizzy mass, and spoke softly into her ear. “It’s okay. Please don’t cry.” _

_ “But I don’t understand and you’re not explaining anything,” she mumbled into his shoulder. _

_ “You don’t always have to understand everything,” he replied and though he tried to maintain his gentle demeanor, she could feel his vexation fighting to come through. “You just have to get ready and go find her.” _

_ Hermione tore herself from his grasp and placed her hands on his arms, pushing him away from her. She found his eyes and forced his full attention on her. “Why do I have to get ready? Who do I have to find, Ron?” _

_ “You already know. You just don’t know that you know.” _

_ “Merlin, why are you speaking in damn riddles?” she cried out in exasperation.  _

_ “I’m not. You’re just being stubborn.” Ron kissed her forehead and she softened just a bit. “She’s your mirror and she’s waiting for you to find her.” He stood up, his boot now properly on his foot even though she hadn’t seen him accomplish the task. “I’ve got to go now, so good luck.” _

_ Hermione sighed, still confused, and spun around to finish with her daily hygiene routine. Then she gasped. _

_ In the mirror was not the reflection she expected to see. Instead of her own, there was another woman, one with rich tan skin and dark doe eyes, framed by luxurious curls rather than her unkempt ones. Her dress was made of regal red silk and a golden crown sat upon her head. Hermione stared, wide-eyed, as the woman’s lips formed soundless words – come find me. _

_ Hermione rubbed her eyes and the image was gone. _

_ “Hey,” Ron yelled at her again, “don’t forget to take that annoying pet of yours.” _

_ Then the door slammed shut and he was gone. _

_ “But,” she whispered sadly, “Crookshanks died last year.” _

**[ oOo ]**

Hermione woke with a start, sitting straight up in her bed. It was still dark outside, no light yet streaming in through her window, but she knew she would not be able to sleep. That was the strangest dream she ever remembered having. It had felt so real, even with its odd content. The smell of grass had lingered on his skin as if he had just come from a pick-up game of Quidditch with Harry, and she could still, after waking up, feel the warmth of his embrace. Dream Ron had felt exactly as she remembered and she knew that if she dwelt on it, it would kill her. So she let her brain work on the practical details instead.

“Probably just that book I read last week,” she tried to rationalize, speaking aloud. “Or perhaps my subconscious was acting out in response to Malfoy’s ridiculously rude antics. I did go to sleep rather upset about it.”

Hermione got out of bed, wincing as her feet touched the cold floor. She rummaged under the mattress. After a few huffs and puffs, she retrieved her house slippers. 

“It could have even been that late-night tart I snuck from the kitchen,” the woman paced, tapping a finger to her chin. “I don’t normally eat that late.”

Hermione finally just threw her hands into the air. “Well, whatever the cause, my Saturday lie-in is ruined.”

Since she couldn’t sleep, Hermione figured a hot shower would be the next best thing.

Turning the heat up as high as it would go, she stepped into the tub. The steam quickly filled the small room, coalescing into a thick cloud. Hermione plunged under the water and gasped. The water was painfully hot, almost more than she could take, and her skin began to change from pale olive to pink. Still, she didn’t turn it down. Squeezing out a dollop of shampoo, she began to wash her hair. Her nails wove through the damp mass, scraping against her scalp, as she spread the cleanser throughout. When it had been fully rinsed, she took the bottle of conditioner and started the process again. Closing her eyes, she breathed in deeply through her nose. And then it hit her. The scent that filled her senses was not that of her own. It was of Ron.

Hermione slid to her knees on the porcelain, letting the scalding liquid beat down upon her, and cried.

She should have listened to Ginny and thrown the stuff away.

It wasn’t like Ron needed them anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This snippet, like all future additions to this collection, is adoptable, no questions asked
> 
> It is my gift to the Dramione community, and as such, anyone (and everyone) is free to use it and expound on it along as I (kanames_harisen) am credited for the portion I created


	8. comfort rituals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Fandom:** The 100  
>  **Pairing:** Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin (intended)  
>  **Word Count:** 273  
>  **Rating:** T  
>  **Genre:** Bellamy-centric  
>  **Warnings:** canon-typical mature themes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this piece after a rewatch of the series from the beginning, way back before the start of season four, as a way to reconcile the characterization of Bellamy in the first few episodes versus the rest of the series (up to that point). I planned to explore how he learned to used sex as a coping mechanism, and how, after Clarke (and others) entered his life, he began to re-evaluate its value. I didn't get far, though...

**[ oOo ]**

Nightmares have plagued Bellamy for as long as he can remember. 

They come to him in whispers, pulling him from rest with cold sweat and a clenched jaw. He hears Octavia’s cries, infant and child and woman. Each incarnation dredges up emotions he’d rather leave buried: helplessness, panic, fear. 

He sees the image of his mother just before she is sucked away into the void, or the gaunt Ark residents who died due to his selfishness, falling like stars into Earth’s atmosphere. He sees Charlotte, so terribly young. Their faces, contorted by anger and sadness, accuse him.

He feels blood boil over his hands, the fading life of Grounders and Mountain Men alike. It stains him red, crawling under his nails and delving into his veins to gnaw at his heart. He smells the acrid stench of charred flesh as it fills his nostrils, and the taste of ash coats his tongue. 

All this evidence, the extent of his cruelty and stupidity and failure, embeds itself deep, fusing with his atoms and molecules. 

He’ll never remove the guilt.

Yet somehow, he maintains his silence in the face of such ghosts; even in sleep, his body knows better than to make noise, to draw attention and compromise those under his charge. It is because of this that he can hide the extent of his anguish, and he is grateful for that small mercy. The burden is and has always been, his alone to bear.

_ That doesn’t mean he won’t accept respite when it crosses his path. _

**.o.**

He was twenty-two years and forty-six days old before he stumbled across a remedy. 

(This fact Bellamy recalls with great clarity; in contrast, the details of the event always blur a bit around their edges, the memory locked behind the rose-tinted glass of youth and inexperience.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This snippet, like all future additions to this collection, is adoptable, no questions asked
> 
> It is my gift to the Bellarke community, and as such, anyone (and everyone) is free to use it and expound on it along as I (kanames_harisen) am credited for the portion I created


	9. blue night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Fandom:** The Walking Dead  
>  **Pairing:** Beth Greene/Daryl Dixon  
>  **Word Count:** 5041  
>  **Rating:** M  
>  **Genre:** Drama, Romance  
>  **Warnings:** References to Cannibalism, canon-typical mature themes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this story as my contribution to Bethyl Week 2014, but I didn't finish it before everything went wrong for my girl, Beth. After that, I didn't have the motivation. When I did finally grieve enough to come back to this story, I'd forgotten where I was going with it. I couldn't complete it and I'd received little interest in it, so I deleted it. But it lives again in this collection...

**.**

**.**

**.**

**. ~ { Secret } ~ .**

“Alright,” Rick whispers, voice rough like gravel. “What do we know? Their numbers, weapons, agenda… anything. Never know what might be helpful.”

The group is gathered in the center of the train car, a crowd of determined faces. Some are sitting, some are kneeling, but all are determinedly avoiding the perimeter. Outside, the November day is cool, but the bright sun beats strong against the thick metal walls, making them uncomfortably warm to the touch. Being in such close proximity to each other is stifling, the air heavy with the sweat and grime of eleven adults and a teenager, yet no one moves away. Daryl knows – just like they all do – that the tight huddle is all the better for keeping any plans they make a secret from their captors. 

Besides, the situation was familiar enough for most of them. They’d been nearly living on top of one another during the early days at the prison and had been crammed into tiny, economical cars loaded down with far too many people on many an occasion. It’s a lesson the survivors have learned well, how a person can’t afford the luxury of things like modesty or personal space in the apocalypse, and he’s probably learned it better than most. 

Still, Daryl hovers apart in the back, the lone person standing in spite of his fatigue. 

“Not much.” Glenn rubs a hand over his face, through his hair. “We got here two days ago, came through the main entrance. The gate was unlocked and the whole place was quiet. No walkers, no people. It was weird–”

“Should’ve known better,” – Sasha shakes her head and her hands ball up into tight fists – “Nowadays, people don’t just let others in like that. I knew something was wrong.”  Bob slips one of his hands over hers, gently coaxing it open before lacing their fingers together. “ Should’ve listened to my gut.”

“Wouldn’t have made a difference,” Michonne says. “We snuck in the back way. Still ended up here.”

“She’s right. We can’t go blaming ourselves. We ain’t got time for it and we ain’t to blame.” Rick looks them each in the eye, points towards the sealed door. “This is on  _ them _ .”

“This kumbaya shit is all well and good, but do you think we could get back to the debriefing now?”

All heads to turn to look at Abraham with a mixed bag of expressions, running the gamut from incredulous to outright annoyance. Rosita nudges him in the side with her elbow none too gently, her lips turned down in marked disapproval. He merely shifts the set of his shoulders, a barely-there, non-repentant shrug, and the woman rolls her eyes. “Dumbass,” she mutters.

“We were greeted by a woman.” Maggie plows ahead, cutting through the egos and hurt feelings and all that bullshit, and takes up where Glenn left off. Her face is grim, all hard lines and resolve, but her eyes are bright and open. The contrast gnaws at Daryl, makes him want to punch something.

_ It reminds him of Beth. _

But he doesn’t have time for those kinds of thoughts, not when he’s trapped like a rabbit in a snare. He’s got to get the hell out of here first, get his people out of harm’s way, and it’ll take every bit of cunning and cleverness he possesses. Can’t be wasting his energy on the guilt –  _ anger, self-reproach, loneliness, heartbreak _ – which he’s been working so hard to bury. Experience tells him that it’ll all still be there later anyway, lying in wait for him, ready to pounce as soon as this is over. Better to concentrate his efforts on something that he can actually escape. 

_ And he knows he shouldn’t be letting his mind dwell on that slip of a girl anyhow.  _

He shifts his stance, using the movement to clear his mind, and turns his focus back to the matter at hand.

“Mary was friendly, all smiles and Southern hospitality, just cooking something on a grill.” Maggie laughs, but it is a mirthless sound. “She offered us a plate of food, but it didn’t feel right–”

“It smelled like crap anyway,” Tara adds, nose wrinkled in disgust. “Looked even worse.”

“–was by herself, no weapon in sight. But when she asked us to give up our weapons, she was so damn confident. We refused–” 

“Actually, Abraham is the one who…” Tara interrupts again, but the large man crosses his arms, and her voice trails off into a low murmur. “Refused.”

“–and that’s when we saw them. The snipers. They crawled out of every nook and cranny. Just surrounded us.” Maggie looks down at her open palms and flexes her fingers open and shut, open and shut. “We didn’t have a choice.”

“You did the right thing.” Rick takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “What about since? They just lock you up and leave you to rot?”

“No, and that’s what’s got me confused.” Glenn leans forward, his words garnering the attention of the group. “I don’t know how much of the complex you got to see before they brought you here. They’ve got this room, lit up with candles and writing all over the walls. It’s like something out of–”

“A damn horror movie? Yeah man, we saw it,” Daryl finishes. He runs a knuckle across his forehead, his gaze shifting momentarily to his feet. Then he raises his head and looks at Rick. “Got a pile of freshly stripped corpses out there, too.”

“I saw it and I’ll be honest, it’s not sitting too well. I’ve tried, but I can’t think of any good reasons for it.”

Carl frowns, his gaze dark. “You think they’re cannibals?”

The train car goes silent, a pregnant pause. Each face around the circle goes pale and many hands rise to cover many mouths – some to hold back the shock, some in a vain effort to calm their churning stomachs.

Daryl’s not surprised. People had been consuming human flesh before the world went all to hell. Of course, it’d been rare then, mostly warped bastards like Dahmer or twisted religious cults. But things were different now. Food was scarce and even normal people had become desperate enough, willing to do whatever it took to survive. Hell, he’s more surprised that this is the first time they’ve run into a group willing to go to these lengths.

Rick takes a deep breath. “Glenn, what do you think?”

“I don’t know. Maybe?” The younger man hangs his head. “It just feels like we’re missing something. They take us out once a day, one person at a time, to go to the bathroom. Then they give us a bowl of reconstituted milk and shove us back in. It’ll be enough to keep us alive for a while, but we’ll gradually get weaker and weaker. If they wanted us for food, why would they wait? Why would they let us waste away? With cattle, you want an animal to be as fat and healthy as possible when you butcher it, right?”

“They’re not gonna eat us,” Eugene declares. “I haven’t figured out their endgame yet, still too many unknown variables. But they’re  _ not _ gonna eat us. That I can guarantee."

“I hope you’re right. For now,” – Rick looks around the circle again – “we keep our eyes and ears open. When it’s your turn outside, pay attention to everything and report it back to the group. We’re going to take advantage of their  _ hospitality _ .”

**.**

**.**

**.**

**. ~ { Red } ~ .**

Beth wakes up slowly. Her mind is fragmented, disjointed, like a nearly complete jigsaw puzzle that has been flung to the floor. Piece by small, odd piece, she gathers them, her memories, and struggles to find a frame of reference so that she can put them together in the proper configuration.

_ Burning lungs and legs, a desperate escape. _

_ Maggie’s bright smile. _

_ Her mamma’s best Sunday go-to-meeting hat. _

_ Piercing gunshots, a shrill scream, and the glint of cool, hardened steel. _

_ Soft, wiggling weight in her arms as she sings little Judith to sleep. _

_ Terrible, biting teeth and a sharp stab of her survival knife. _

_ A dog and a song and the accelerated rhythm of her own heart. _

_ Tight squeeze through a window and more running, running, running. _

_. _

_. _

_. _

_ Daryl. _

Her eyes open and her breathing stills as it all suddenly snaps back into place. Her daddy. The fall of the prison. The uncertain time spent on the road. Peach Schnapps, moonshine, and a handful of nearly-idyllic days at a little white funeral parlor. Being separated from Daryl when the walkers descended upon them. A flash of headlights… and then nothing.

Beth swallows down her panic. She’s alive, so there’s no sense in kicking up a fuss and raising the alarm, at least not until she knows the particulars of her current situation. Her body hurts – a dull pain that seems to permeate muscle and bone alike, originating from her right side – but she does her best to ignore it and begins to take stock of her surroundings.

She’s alone, tucked neatly into a bed made up with the softest, cleanest sheets she’s touched since the farmhouse. They were probably some kind of red at one time – a deep burgundy or wine color, maybe – but they are now an awkward pink, faded from too many washings. Rolling over first onto her better side, Beth gingerly sits up. The room spins for a few brief seconds, but then her body reclaims its equilibrium and everything tilts back into its proper place. Not that it matters overly much. There’s little else to be seen, just a beat-up nightstand and a matching wooden chair.

It’s time to look around outside, she decides. Get a better idea of what she’s in for. Beth drops her feet over the edge of the bed with the intention of letting them hang there for a moment, but is startled when they make contact with something. With a start, she moves them back quickly and leans over to peer under the bed, readying herself for a threat. When she sees what’s down there, she lets out soft, relieved sort of chuckle.

_ Just my boots, thank goodness.  _

She hadn’t even realized they weren’t on her feet. With a faint smile, she pulls them on, wiggling her toes into well-worn leather. They’ve been with her for a long time now and Beth knows she would sorely miss them if they were gone, not just for survival reasons. They are the last little bit of home she has left.

One last check of her person – she’s also got a fresh bandage on her left bicep, but her knife is still on her hip and she doesn’t seem to have been otherwise...  _ tampered _ with – and Beth stands up. Her legs are steadier than she had expected they would be, especially given the way sitting up had affected her head. But she takes it slow anyway, walking a lazy path around the bed. Once she’s sure her muscles aren’t going to give out, she rummages through the pitiful excuse for a closet and the single drawer of the nightstand, finding a mostly-used bottle of ibuprofen for her troubles. 

_ If I only had some water _ , she thinks wryly,  _ those last two pills would be real nice right about now. _

Rolling her neck, Beth tries to release the tension that has settled between her shoulder blades. When the muscles there are as relaxed as she can expect, she begins to stretch the rest of her body, prepping herself as best she can for whatever might be beyond the relative safety of the room. But then she hears it, the low rumble of a male voice humming out an old country tune. Her face lights up and Beth forgets caution, bursting through the door.

“You’re up,” the man says. His hands are busy with a paring knife, peeling and slicing an apple, then dropping the pieces into a bowl. “How’re you feeling? You got hit pretty good.”

Beth doesn’t say anything in reply, just retreats a half-step backward. Her fingers slide over her hip, hovering over the sheath of her knife. He looks up from his task, takes in her countenance, and gives her an understanding smile. 

“It’s okay, miss. You won’t be needing that. It’s just me and Nate here,” – his head gestures to the next room – “and we ain’t aiming to hurt nobody.”

To her right, Beth hears a deep sigh and the muted stomp of heavy footfalls. A second or two later, another man, tall and muscled, rounds the corner and stops in the open archway on the opposite side of the room. He catches sight of her and his eyes narrow sharply. “What’s going on here? There something you need me to take care of, Father?”

Beth quickly grabs her weapon, knuckles white around the handle as she holds the blade steady in front of her. Then she squares her shoulders. Adrenaline is thrumming through her, feeding the flight-or-flight reflex, but she stands her ground and holds tight to the protective anger rising in her chest. It makes her bold, and with grit teeth, Beth bites out the only question she cares to have an answer to at the moment.

“Where the hell is Daryl?”

**.**

**.**

**.**

**. ~ { Numb } ~ .**

Daryl watches the sun’s descent through one of the gaps in the metal. The colors of the sunset are muted and lack the intensity that they display during the summer months, favoring subtle pastels instead of fiery jewel tones. It’s like the sky has been brushed over with a thin wash of gray, painted bleak and miserable. The view is so uninspiring that he wonders why he even bothers. Then he looks around in the darkness inside, catching a glimpse of bright eyes in a face that is much too similar to  _ hers _ for his current liking and remembers what it is that he is trying to avoid.

In taking up a position in one of the corners of the train car, Daryl has purposely put distance between himself and the others. While everyone else is still tightly crammed into the middle, he’s the first to brave contact with the hard steel, settling in and using it as a backrest. But that small gamble is worth it. The material is still warm, though not nearly enough to burn, and the residual heat seeps through his skin, soaking deep into tired muscles and weary bones. It’s been a long-ass day. Hell, it’s been a long-ass couple of weeks, and he’s hardly slept at all.

_ Not since he was separated from Beth. _

His head lolls backward, supported by the juncture where the two walls connect, and he closes his eyes without a second thought. Glenn’s taking the first watch and Daryl trusts him. The younger man’s proven himself, earned Daryl’s respect many times over. Not that there’s a whole lot to watch for right now. They might be prisoners, but their current location is likely to protect them from most immediate dangers, except for their captors. He can afford to get a bit of shut-eye.

The sky grows dark, a great bluish-black expanse, and Daryl finally begins to nod off. It’s not a deep or proper sleep that he falls into. He wouldn’t know what that felt like anyway. Even before, back when the laws of nature still held true, he’d had to keep a certain awareness at all times or deal with the consequences, none of which were ever good. So Daryl takes in the low whispers of conversation around him and recognizes the exact moment when the wall at his back loses the last of its heat, among a multitude of other mundane details, and pushes all those things to the back of his mind. If it’s not a threat, if it doesn’t require his immediate attention, it gets relegated to white noise.

When Daryl’s been asleep for a while – long enough for his shoulders to stiffen and for his hands to become heavy and numb – he hears her sit down beside him. It’s not the shuffling of her feet or the rustle of clothing as her back slides down the metal behind them that gets his attention; those sounds have been echoing through the train car all evening as people have settled in for the night. No, instead what disturbs his rest is the sigh, barely more than a soft exhale, which she releases just before she speaks.

“Daryl, you awake?”

“Am now.” He opens his eyes a crack. “What ya want, Greene?”

The question is unnecessary. Daryl knows exactly what she’s after. But he sure as hell isn’t going to make it easy on her, not for either of their sakes. He’s not a sharing kind of man, doesn’t like to talk about the things he has squirreled away. Doesn’t like to talk much, period. A person’s got to work to get something out of him. And Maggie Greene’s got some learning to do, some penance to pay, so he’s going to make her work.

“I was talking to Rick,” she starts, determination in the timbre of her voice. “He said you got out with Beth?”

“Hmm,” he grunts, neither confirmation nor denial, and picks at a loose string on his frayed pants.

“She’s not here.” He mumbles another non-answer in response to her prodding, and she shifts her body to face him. A weak stripe of moonlight is cast over her face, her change of position putting her directly into its path. Maggie’s expression, what little he can see of it, is now stubborn and angry, all pointed chin and dagger eyes. “She’s  _ my _ sister. I deserve to–”

“You don’t deserve shit,” he says. There’s no malice in the statement, just fact. After a long minute for her mull over the truth of his words, Daryl continues. “I saw the signs.”

Her breath hitches and then he can hear it rasp against her grit teeth as it escapes, a harsh, desperate sound. Eyes wide, she asks, “Did  _ she _ see them?”

Daryl leaves her fidgeting in her guilt for a moment before he shakes his head. “Nah. Least not last I saw her.”

“I just– I knew Glenn was alive, you know? Sounds stupid, but I could feel it,” – Maggie pounds a fist lightly into her chest – “here. But Beth… She’s not exactly–”

“Strong? Is that what you think?” Daryl bites out his accusation, quiet anger written in the taut lines of his mouth. He leans towards the girl, a hard glare invading her personal space. “That she’s weak?”

“No.” She lowers her head and begins to rub the pad of her thumb over the rough edges of her short fingernails. Her voice is small, gone soft and still. “No. She’s strong. Probably stronger than anyone else I know. But it’s a different kind of strength. 

“Before the prison fell, before the sickness and the Governor and Daddy… Beth hadn’t been out there, you know?  _ Really _ out there. We sheltered her too much, coddled her. It was wrong. I can see that now. And I just– The way we treated her gave me doubts. Because we hadn’t prepared her, not at all.” She looks right back at Daryl, her eyes glossy and bottom lip trembling. “In this world, even the strong die. It takes more than just strength to survive.”

Then Maggie stands, brushes off the back of her pants, and takes a step towards where Glenn is now sleeping, someone else having taken up his guard post. Her shoulders are hunched, grief resting heavy across her thin back, and something about the sight makes his resolve waver. Beth would hate to see her sister like that, so defeated, and he doesn’t want to be the one responsible it. He’s done lots of things since losing Beth. Things that he knows she wouldn’t like, wouldn’t commend. But to do one of those things to the girl’s own kin? The thought rankles deep in his belly.

“Greene."

She half-turns towards him, shifting back into the light. “Yeah?"

“We got separated, maybe two weeks ago.” Daryl pauses, gesturing to the spot she just vacated. Maggie blinks and then her brows furrow, but she doesn’t move. Maybe she can’t see him properly where he sits in the darkness, or maybe she’s just not sure what he wants from her. Either way, he knows that he can’t just leave her like that. “Well, come on, girl. I ain’t got all night.”

“You’re really gonna tell me?” she asks with a hopeful drawl. “About my sister?”

“Yeah, I’m really gonna tell you about your sister. If you ever sit your scrawny ass down and shut up.”

Then Daryl recalls their days on the road, and the dark gradually gives way to the first light of dawn. He hadn’t planned on saying much – just wanted to give her the basics of what’d happened – and though the man hasn’t said even a fraction of what he could’ve, he’s said more than enough. More than he thought he ever say about anyone. Still, even with his unusual bout of verbosity, Maggie does most of the talking, telling stories about stubborn, headstrong Beth and better days that are long gone. It’s a small moment of peace in a cruel, unrelenting world.

And for the first time since Beth disappeared, Daryl lets his emotions rise to the surface instead of shoving them down. It’s not quite happiness, this thing that he feels, because the situation certainly doesn’t warrant it. 

But it’s something close.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**. ~ { Enchanted } ~ .**

Daryl tries to sleep during the small hours of the early morning before the sun fully rises to heat their metal cage. He knows that once that happens, it’ll be too miserable to get any kind of significant rest. But instead of letting him have the deep, restful slumber he needs, his mind refuses to shut down as it should. In the space behind his closed eyelids, he hears the sound of a song playing in the background – a sweet, piano-driven tune with lilting vocals – and it continues on and on and  _ on _ , in an endless loop. Flashes of bright blue, soft pink, and pale blonde are woven throughout, adding to the atmosphere of the melody.

His thoughts have been centered on her much too often lately. Her pretty smile or the way she gets all fired up when she thinks something is wrong. How she can still see so much good in this shithole of a world. That she seems to think he’s one of those ‘good’ things. He ain’t never had someone get under his skin the way Beth has. She’s got him all off-kilter and he sure as hell don’t know what to do about it. It’s like that damn girl has enchanted him or something.

It makes him almost thankful when his futile attempt at sleep is disturbed.

The Termites, as the group has taken to calling their jailors, begin their routine first thing in the morning. A pair of armed guards knock twice on the door, call out a name, and fiercely remind everyone else to stay back under the penalty of death. The warning is a pointless exercise; no one in their group is stupid enough to try anything, not in broad daylight with snipers watching their every move. Each person is gone maybe ten minutes, just time enough for the lures of sun and fresh air to sink in and take hold, to make being shoved back inside nearly unbearable. Then the group is left alone until the next shift of guards come round to call out another name.

This is how Daryl finds out that his group – Rick, Michonne, Carl, and himself – aren’t the only ones that have been given code names. They all have one.

_ The Leader, The Archer, The Samurai, and The Kid. _

_ Ginger and The Professor. _

_ The Three Stooges – Larry, Moe, and Curly. _

_ Mrs. Strong and Mr. Silent. _

_ The Smartass. _

It’s an intelligent, calculated move, stripping them of their real identities. The tactic keeps things impersonal, makes prisoners less than human in the eyes of those watching over them. Gareth… he’s definitely one smooth, manipulative bastard.

It’s about an hour before dusk by the time they call for Daryl, leaving him for very last. He’s not sure what that says about what they think of him – whether he is considered more or less of a threat than the rest – and he doesn’t really care. He’s been overlooked, underestimated, and misunderstood all his life. He’s used to turning those misconceptions around to his advantage. The time will come for action soon enough and when it does, that’s when Daryl will care about what’s going through their heads. 

_ Because then the only thing in their sick brains will be his arrows.  _

But for now, a piss and something for his complaining stomach are all he needs.

Daryl walks through the doorway and winces, what’s left of the sunlight still too bright for his eyes. They are slow to adjust and it makes him antsy. It’s another disadvantage to overcome. The guards frisk him while he squints, but they find nothing and give him the okay to move forward. The cold steel of a gun barrel digs into the middle of his back, a none-too-subtle threat ushering him in the direction they want him to go.

The bathroom turns out to be nothing more than an old port-a-potty, dank and smelly. One of the men escorting him smirks, wide and unpleasant, and then slowly counts out two measly squares of toilet paper. He dangles them in front of Daryl’s nose and nods towards the facilities. Daryl ignores the offering, entering the foul box with a smirk of his own, and the pleased expression falls from the guard’s face. With a chuckle, Daryl takes care of his business. He didn’t need to take a shit anyway.

On the way back, Daryl surveys the complex as best he can, his sight finally adjusted to the outside environment. Like before, there are gunmen everywhere, hiding in corners and spying from the rooftops. By his count, there are at least a dozen. And those are just the ones he can see. Even if that’s all the numbers they have in and around the building, the count doesn’t include anyone who might be out patrolling near the fences or in the woods. They’ve dealt with worse numbers before, but not against a group so organized and well-armed. Rick’s going to have to come up with a damn good plan if they all want to get out of here in one piece.

If he can’t, Daryl’s not above raising some hell and letting the distraction serve as a cover for the others. He figures his one life for their eleven is a good exchange. There are worse ways to go.

The guards force him to halt a few paces from the train car. A woman is standing there, slightly-graying red hair and an artificial smile. She’s got a bowl in one weathered hand and a red Dixie cup in the other.

“Thought you might like a little refreshment,” she says. “Disagreement or no, a man needs some nourishment. The name’s Mary, by the way.”

He hesitates to accept, but the tip of a gun jabs into his spine painfully. “Drink up, son. Don’t want to be offending this kind lady. Ya hear?”

Daryl gulps them down – warm milk in the bowl and water in the cup – in quick succession. Neither taste all that great, but if nothing else, they’ll help to keep him hydrated. He hands the containers back and his eyes discreetly scan across the woods one last time. He can’t see very far through the foliage or do much in the way of reconnaissance with so many people watching him, but just knowing that the wilderness is there is a comfort. The trees are more of a home than he’s ever had.

The colors of the leaves have changed, all reds and oranges and yellows, but have yet to fall. Winter is still a few weeks off, so the view is one that he could enjoy for a while longer if he was one for that kind of thing. Or if he wasn’t being held against his will. But he’s not, not in that sense anyway. He cares more about how the seasons will affect his hunting than the surroundings being something pretty to look at. It’s not like he’s against anything being pleasant to look at, but a picturesque scene isn’t going to fill his belly. Practicality comes first.

Movement to his left catches his eye. He tracks it in his peripheral vision, refusing to move his head for fear of gaining unwanted attention. The setting sun is at his back, sending the last of its rays down to illuminate the world. Patches of the light dance through the leaves and make it through the thick canopy to brighten up the ground underneath. His target moves through one of those pale beams, a brief flicker of gold, and it’s suddenly difficult to keep his emotions from playing out on his face. 

It’s gone before he can decide if it was really there at all or if it was just his imagination.

The rest of the day, what little’s left of it, and through much of the night, Daryl thinks about what he’d seen earlier in the woods. Until then, he’d been entertaining many dark thoughts. About revenge and retribution. About death and sacrifice. About violent means to violent ends. And he knows that he might’ve just been hallucinating, conjuring up the image of her out of thin air. After his conversation with Maggie, it’d been hard to get thoughts of the younger Greene girl out of his head. But whether the vision really had been just in his head or whether she’d actually been there, it doesn’t matter. It’s turned any half-cocked plan he’d been making directly on its ugly head.

_ Beth _ .

Even when that damn girl's gone, she's still in his head, taking up residence and crowding out the dark. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This snippet, like all future additions to this collection, is adoptable, no questions asked
> 
> It is my gift to the Bethyl community, and as such, anyone (and everyone) is free to use it and expound on it along as I (kanames_harisen) am credited for the portion I created


	10. just a little (will you love me?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Fandom:** Miss Stevens  
>  **Pairing:** Rachel Stevens & Billy Mitman  
>  **Word Count:** 1214  
>  **Rating:** T  
>  **Genre:** found family, timeskip, future fic  
>  **Warnings:** profanity, canon-typical mature themes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this movie gut-punched me in the feels, and I just had to explore what happened to the characters after the movie, especially Rachel and Billy. I planned to explore what it might look like if they met again as adults, what their relationship might look like. Most likely, this would have been a platonic-soulmate type story 
> 
> (it might have eventually transitioned into a romance if I felt I could manage the subject with an appropriate level of sensitivity and wisdom. of course, that's a big "if")
> 
> Either way, this movie moved me in ways I wasn't expecting it to, and this snippet is the result

**.**

**.**

**.**

**[ .oOo. ]**

At the end of the school year, Rachel resigns from Franklin High School.

Her departure is a quiet affair, marked by the indifference of casual acquaintance. There is a cake in the teacher’s lounge, well wishes for her future written in bright blue buttercream. Rachel’s name is misspelled, and that fact seems to sum up her time here: lonely, impersonal, and brief. Her existence over the past year revolved around her interactions with this staff. Yet, no one knew her enough to get her name correct on her fucking farewell cake. Rachel stabs through the _a_ that should be an _e_ with her fork. As the sugar melts on her tongue, she wonders whether the fault is theirs or her own.

Rachel receives much the same treatment from her students. She is generally well-liked, she knows; she has ears, and the students are less than subtle in their rumor-mongering against despised staff members. But she also knows English isn’t exactly a favorite subject for the average high-schooler, either. Her resignation garners as much attention as the change of menu in the cafeteria.

There are a couple of noted exceptions. 

After school, Sam and Margot team up to send her off in a modicum of style. There is another cake, yellow with rich chocolate frosting – which is, coincidentally, her favorite. It’s one of the few personal tidbits Rachel shared with the class, dropping the information on the altar of student participation. It hadn’t worked, of course. But seeing her name piped carefully and correctly across the top of Margot’s homemade cake, Rachel can’t bring herself to regret it. 

The three of them pack her meager personal supplies and belongings into a large, wheeled storage tote as they reminisce over classroom trivialities. When there’s nothing left to do but leave, Sam pulls her into a tearful hug. Rachel pats his back, awkward as she tries to maintain a sense of propriety, and laughs as she feels a trickle of saline fall down her cheek. Margot clears her throat and asks if they could have Rachel’s email address in case they want to use her as a reference for scholarships and the like. Rachel nods and rummages through her tote for a pen and some paper. As Rachel hands out the slips, Margot’s chin wobbles. The girl breathes out a shaky, “thank you for everything,” and then the two closest things Rachel has to friends walk out the door.

She stands there, frozen.

A bell, loud and grating, resounds through the complex, signaling the end of the detention period. With her heart in her throat, Rachel sprints to the bathroom and locks herself in the nearest stall. She lets the tears fall freely for the first time since that night on the hotel balcony. She feels cold, in spite of the summer heat, and desperately alone. Eventually, the tears stop. Splashing cold water on her face, she pushes her hair behind her ears and heads back to her classroom.

Rachel marches to her desk and unlocks the drawer containing her purse. The off-brand, faux-leather bag rests heavy in her hand, so she pulls it into her lap as she slumps in her chair one last time. Rachel rifles through the odd assortment of objects she keeps in her purse. The keys to the classroom, the teacher’s lounge, and the supply room have to be turned in before she leaves today. It takes some finagling, but she manages to remove them from the rest of her keyring with minimal damage to her nails. She sighs and closes her fists, her personal keys nestled in her left hand and the school’s keys in her right. A dark chuckle escapes her lips as she realizes what she’s giving up weighs more than what she’s keeping. A sudden wave of exhaustion washes over her, and she flops her head onto the hard, cold surface of her desk.

Only, it’s not cold or hard.

Her head lands on something dark and soft, with lingering traces of heat running through it. Rachel lifts the fabric, examining it, and the movement reveals an accompanying note written in a familiar hand. Her purse and keys clatter against the floor as she rushes to the door. Rachel looks up and down the hallway. When she doesn’t see him, she makes a loop through the building, his hoodie tucked in the crook of her arm and her fingers clenched around his note. 

But Billy is nowhere to be found.

Rachel gives up and trudges back, scooping up the mess of her purse. She throws the bag over her shoulder and leans against her desk, surveying the room with a melancholy eye. Everything is in its place. There’s nothing left for her to do now except walk out.

Laying Billy’s hoodie over the back of her chair, Rachel folds his message up and tucks it into her back pocket. She hasn’t read it yet. Since the drama competition, she’s been careful to be professional in her interactions with him. Adult authority figure and teacher, rather than a friend. He’s responded in kind. But yet, she has her suspicions. Billy is a brilliant actor. If he wants her to think he’s given up trying to be her shoulder to lean on, he could easily manage it. There’s a niggling in the back of her brain that says she should wait for a more appropriate setting to read it – like off-campus when she’s no longer employed as his teacher.

Rachel retracts the telescoping handle of her tote and heads for the door. Her last glance across the room sweeps over her chair, and her chest tightens. She should leave it there. Every fiber of her being knows it to be true. But she can’t do it, can’t ignore this token from the one person in this whole damn place that she ever felt a real kinship for. Before she can overthink it, Rachel snatches it up and puts it on.

Then she walks out.

The secretary is on the phone when Rachel enters the office. The older woman greets her with a questioning raise of her drawn-on brows, and Rachel jingles the keys in the air. Covering the bottom of the phone with her hand, the woman whispers, “Leave them on the counter, dear. This call is going to take a while.”

Pasting on her best approximation of a smile, Rachel nods and leaves the keyring in the secretary’s care. Then she shuffles out the door, dragging her teaching supplies and bruised self-esteem behind her.

Rachel makes it to her car before curiosity gets the better of her. After shoving her stuff into the trunk, she pulls the paper out of her pocket. Rachel starts the old Volvo, cranks up both the radio and the air conditioning, and locks the doors. Looking around to verify she’s alone in the parking lot, she takes a deep breath and unfolds the note.

_I’ve been one poor correspondent,  
_ _And I’ve been too, too hard to find_  
But it doesn’t mean you ain’t been on my mind

_(You know the rest, right?)_

Rachel sits there for a long time, staring at the _America_ lyrics written in smudged black ink. 

She refuses to answer Billy’s question even in the safety of her own head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This snippet, like all pieces in this collection, is adoptable, no questions asked
> 
> It is my gift to the Miss Stevens community, and as such, anyone (and everyone) is free to use it and expound on it along as I (kanames_harisen) am credited for the portion I created


End file.
